Her skin folds at the neck, pinned to the floor beneath my hand.
She’s immobilized.
Panting.
Tail wagging in defiance.
Her body submits, but her spirit thrashes. Claws grip into my forearms, snout digging where I’d rather it not.
I smile. She still remembers.
You don’t. You gave that up. Years ago. Maybe decades.

She has no idea why she wants to resist, only that she must. She doesn’t care how many times she’s punished for it. She’d rather be choked out than forget who she is.

Why would God make man so broken?
Living by consensus.
Never committing.
Talking in circles.
Justifying inaction like there will always be another chance.

We’ve laid this suffocating barrier over ourselves and pretend it’s not there. When suffering is all you’ve ever known, you stop recognizing it as a choice.

You quit. And so did everyone around you. There’s no use telling you that you’re capable of what your creator is. You wouldn’t believe.

The sunrise feels inconvenient.
Effort is offensive.
Truth a violation.

I don’t wonder why you stay the same. I wonder if there’s any unfarmed spirit left. The kind your creator would still recognize. The kind that would run through a wall just to be alive.

You were not made for anxiety, depression, and indecision. No spell you’re under is permanent. You have fallen from the start and have a ways to climb. If you are not vigilant, you will continue to be a fraction of a man.