Dead cats. Dead rats.

Do yourself a favour and escape the tyranny of reality.

Or Cesar. The boy dog.
Or Cesar. The boy dog.

For the first time in my life, I woke up with tears in my eyes. Things are getting crazy and a little bit strangey.

Have you ever been shocked back into consciousness, from a dream, crying? This impossibly weird event has fucked me just a little. The only solace in the night’s darkest hour: the snoring of my roommate — keep snoring mortherfucker — don’t ever stop. These melodic and sure movements of sound, like the washing of the tide — no two sets of snores are the same, some crash heavy, while others trickle into life — are the only sure thing in my post homicidal night vision existence. Silence would only tempt the horrors, that plague my sleeping hours, to creep into reality.

My dog: that beautiful, pathetic little runt. He is locked into my room — Wait a minute. Allow me to digress. Anyone who treats an animal as an ‘it’ should be shot for the inhumane fuck that they are.

My dog is locked in my room. I have locked him there. He is suffering a slow asphyxiatic death. The heater is on and he’s running out of air. I hold the lifeless yet still warm form in my hands — he’s no bigger than a cat. There is nothing I can do to bring him back — there is no pet cemetery — and I wonder if anyone has ever offed themselves over the death of a pet? I don’t believe I’ve heard of an inter-species Romeo and Juliet.

I walk up the stairs of my imaginary torture and throw the animal off the balcony like a piece of garbage. I think the disposability of a loved one is what fucks me up the most. Maybe there’s a message here. I’m not sure. I’ll leave it up to minds other than my own. I hold onto the belief that love is a tangible force in the universe like a blanket clutching a child on a cold night.

This is the first time tears have touched my sleep; however, these nightmares are nothing new. I’ve felt this all before, through and through. My life, My death. Half a life time abusing psychoactive substances — and the subsequent start stop nature of my addictions — have left my psyche utterly fuckedup. When you’re high, your dreams are suppressed. When you’re not, your subconsciousness gives your consciousness the middle finger, as if to say, “Hey mate! I’m back! And you’re fucked now. Time to pay.”

But it’s not just the drugs. It can’t be. I’m in a foreign land. I don’t speak the language. I’m lagged from the jet and I’m facing the same demise as the two hundred other people stuck in this Bogota compound. Acceptance versus individuality is a problem we face every day of our lives. When you’re put in a time machine and sent back to high school, these problems, these problems are exacerbated. At 27 I thought I was too old for this type of thing. This hotel turned decompression chamber is preparing us for life as ‘English teaching fellows’ in Colombia.

These real challenges can be overcome.

I only wish I could call my mum and find out whether my dog is dead. Fucking internet…

Beer helps me escape the tyranny of existence and reality.


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