Dissatisfaction is like a dog.
The more you feed it
The more it grows fatter
But not stronger
I didn’t know how to train my
Dissatisfaction to become meaningful
I wanted to be a journalist
But my dog did not know how to swim, jump or smell
Mostly not how to rescue people from themselves
I wanted to be a writer
But what does my dog know about following clues and spying on strangers the way Sophie Calle did with the men in Venice?
I wanted to be a photographer
But my dog could not see all the colors of the rainbow
Only imprecise hues of teal and grey
And not all the aspects of empathy and human composition.
I wanted to be a helper
But my dog, I did not teach him how to fetch
Give to the poor
Steal from the rich
And make things even
Or at least even better
In our small yard called society.
I wanted to be a lover too
My dog was shy and sometimes he was brutal
Sometimes he was like a horse
He wanted to break free from imaginary leashes, from kennels too small for his fast legs.
My dog found himself wounded
And licking his own broken leg
He confessed to me
You wanted to be all these things
The way people want dogs to be their pets
But did your pets want to be yours?
I told him: I did not want to become just a poet of the internet
Picking anguish and appreciation here and there
Depending on what’s user friendly or not
Depending of thumbs ups
My dog sleeps now
I’d be better of if he bit me.