The Silver-Haired Wolf
It was quite the journey I must say. Quite the journey indeed. Although my legs had been strained, I would still jog along. I firmly declared I would do anything and could do everything to find her: that silver wolf with brilliant silver hair.
Aye, I still remember it. That’s how I know I never lost my head, the memory of that silver-haired wolf who I met on a rigid, rough, and dirty time of day at midway to midnight hour of autumn. An hour to which I blew the smoke of my cigar towards. An hour to which I resent.
Oh, the chair I sat in was torn and soiled in ink. The strings came in every-which-way direction. They would even dance when I looked away. They loved to mock my stillness. Those several dozen rips and tears, who looked like several thousand rips and tears, loved to mock me. When they stopped their sarcastic waltz, they pricked up like pins, nails.
The back of the chair, like my very own, was bent in all ways but proper. The rest only contorted my arms. I began to look like a tangle of pulled cloth and twigs. Twigs more so. I hadn’t the time for a meal any longer.
I hadn’t even the time for my pills which the doctor prescribed as if I were in delusion, as if I were psychotic. He prescribed them as if I were insane. I was never insane, only eccentric.
Anyhow, I hadn’t the time for meals or pills. I had too much paper to fill.
I simply had such an extravagant and cacophonous amount of said papers to write. Yet, despite my brilliant management of the time, I hadn’t the power to dot but a miniscule, microscopic letter on the papers. In fact, I had no power at all. Not even with a click of the finger.
Speaking of clicks, I stared at the clock endlessly. Stalking the hands and the gears and the paper and the glass and the whatever-else that built the clock. I stared for a very long time. Yet, despite the many hundreds of clicks of the seconds hand, the minutes only went by… say, three or four tick?
That’s when my mind slid-no-dropped to the cold-rolled, steel typewriter on my desk. My desk was a wooden desk. I stared at the rubber keys of my typewriter, the same rubber slathered in the sweat of my shaky hands. My shaky hands shook too fast for eyes to see.
Well, to calm the much hated shaking, I stepped away. I stepped away for the thirtieth time in thirty minutes. I flailed and threw my body onto my stiff and dry bed like a pathetic, albeit desperate, child. I could feel the cracks and clicks of cheap screws and nails bending whilst I was lying.
I turned my weak and weary head to the side where wind was blowing. And I stared at that window, yes, I stared at the drab snowy ground outside too. The snow wasn’t snow: it was merely dust. Cold dust was on the ground today!
Alas, I shut my eyes in hopes of falling asleep. I hoped desperately to fall asleep, to forget this work, to forget that nagging clicking of the clock which I could hear every second of every minute of every hour of every day. I truly wanted to forget.
But I heard a crunch. I heard a ruffle, a crisp, a stomp.
My eyelids ran away from each other, my eyes met eyes with a beautiful wolf.
This was no ordinary wolf. This was a gorgeous, pretty-as-a-picture silver-haired wolf with stunning eyes of every color I knew and didn’t know existed.
This wolf seemed to sing into the sky, making it disappear. It told this sky, which was dull as the blots of ink on my vest, to leave. It then stared back at me like a beautiful maiden locking eyes with her husband whose body and mind denied him of human decency.
Yet this wolf gave me that decency. This wolf gave me love, admiration, and decency.
I gasped!
How could I not?
I assure you that you would have too had you seen this silver-haired wolf. This silver-haired wolf whose silver hair shined and shimmered even when the sky was so drab, objectively dimmer than the stains on the ground.
I cried to the wolf, the silver-haired wolf! I cried so high ‘till my voice betrayed me, cracked, stabbed my neck and the silver-haired wolf ran away.
My cries of joy and relief twisted. No, I cried still but not of joy!
I cried with pain so agonizing and betraying!
I cried to God!
Why must you promise me love just to rape it from my hands!? Why must you give me relief just to replace it with grief!
I cried so very loud, yes, I did. I cried until my voice simply stopped.
Then I looked to my hands, soiled with ink, dirt, and my own fresh blood.
I looked to the now drabber windows.
I looked to the pile of papers.
I looked to the dry bed.
I looked to the typewriter.
I looked to my work. I simply had too much work. I had nothing but my work. Work was all I had, all I would have.
My work was not a wolf.
Oh, but my pain would end. I promised myself this pain would end.
My work was meaningless! I would chase this wolf! I would never not chase this wolf! I would leave my work, my home, my bed, I would leave my life to chase this silver-haired wolf with silver hair that shimmered in sky which was duller than ink!
I will still chase that silver-haired wolf.
