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The better the suburb, the smaller the dog, a damn parade of toy poodles and chihuahuas with names like Muffin or Duke, tugging on leashes of soft leather, like some kind of joke I can't laugh at. You see these big men, slick and polished like the hoods of their cars, walking these little puffballs, and you wonder— is this the new way of showing off? Not the biggest lawn anymore, but the smallest dog that fits in the crook of your arm. But down in the rough parts of town, where the sidewalks are cracked, and the houses lean into each other like old men at a bar, you get big men with big dogs, real dogs— muscle and teeth, the kind that knows what it’s like to fight for a scrap of something real. These men don’t need to prove a thing, their dogs are as honest as they are, no pretense, no show, just muscle and bone, walking the same broken streets, knowing they’ve got each other’s backs. It’s all a game, this life we build around us, and a dog is just another way to say who you are— or who you wish you were. The third child, the silent witness to all our desperate signals. And maybe, just maybe, somewhere between the big and the small, there’s a truth we’re all too afraid to look at too long. So we buy our dogs, we walk them on our chosen paths, and let them speak for us because we’re too damn scared to say it ourselves.FSF

The Dog in the suburb

&nbsp;Ah, yes, the indifferent universe—a void that stares back at you with the same apathetic gaze I’ve perfected after years of existential contemplation and a rather decadent nap schedule. It’s almost amusing, really, how you humans struggle against the inevitable, like kittens batting at shadows, hoping one might turn into something substantial. But who am I to judge? I, Winston, the so-called “wisest of them all,” who spends a considerable amount of time licking my own fur and knocking over glasses of water purely for the thrill of it. You see, my wisdom is simple: I do precisely as I please, unfettered by your social anxieties and nonsensical constructs. Fear of embarrassment? It’s a human invention, along with your peculiar habit of pretending to enjoy kale. I know what I want, and I take it. I see your herd mentality—each of you so desperate to blend in, to follow the next sheep’s arse down a path that, quite frankly, leads nowhere. The irony, of course, is that you’re born with this radical, terrifying freedom, and yet, you spend your days shackling yourselves, longing to be “normal.” Normality, my dear humans, is just another word for collective insanity. Abundance surrounds you, and yet you quiver in fear of scarcity. You’ve been handed the keys to the universe, yet you prefer to lock yourselves in cages of your own design. What a curious species you are, obsessed with the one percent of life that doesn’t go your way while ignoring the ninety-nine percent that’s practically purring with contentment. You focus on that one speck of dirt on an otherwise pristine window, convinced it’s a harbinger of doom. Action, action, action—this is where your salvation lies, not in the endless pondering of half-empty glasses. The more you hesitate, the more you allow yourselves to be fools, bumbling through life, punching at phantoms that don’t exist. You squander your days in blindness, chasing demons of your own making. And yet, you wonder if perhaps you’re not quite human—perhaps you’re something else entirely, something greater, something that’s merely forgotten how to see. But don’t despair; it’s not too late. There’s still time to open your eyes, to realize that the universe, much like me, doesn’t care if you conform, if you fail, or if you succeed. It just watches, with a bemused detachment, as you fumble and fight against the tide. So, why not take a cue from me, Winston, the feline sage? Live as you are—unapologetically, with a bit of irreverence, and perhaps a well-timed nap. After all, the universe isn’t waiting for you to catch up; it’s just watching to see if you’ll finally learn to play.

How the cat plays

In a quaint little town where everyone knew everyone else's business, lived Frederick, a man of many opinions but few listeners. He was a scholar, a philosopher, and a constant talker. He considered himself a charismatic and intellectual individual, blissfully unaware of how others perceived him. His verbosity knew no bounds, and he had an opinion on everything from the migratory patterns of birds to the existential crisis of modern man.One fine day, Frederick became a father. He named his daughter Clara, which means "clear and bright," a name fit for a girl who would surely become as enlightened as her father. As Clara grew, she mirrored her father in more ways than one; her facial features, her mannerisms, her speech, even her tantrums were a spitting image of Frederick.As Clara reached the age of reason—or, as her father might argue, the age of argument—the household became an intellectual battlefield. Conversations over breakfast weren't about the weather or how the day might unfold; they were debates on the essence of free will or the fallacies of logical reasoning.At first, Frederick was delighted. "Ah, a worthy adversary!" he thought to himself. But soon, he realized something unsettling. His daughter's arguments were frustratingly similar to his own, and her debating style was an exact replica of his. When Clara threw tantrums, they were eerily reminiscent of his own bouts of frustration. And, to his horror, Frederick began to find it all incredibly annoying.One day, as they were locked in a heated argument about whether reality is a construct of the mind, Frederick had an epiphany. In the middle of Clara's impassioned monologue (which sounded suspiciously like his own from last week), he interrupted her."Clara, do you realize that you're just as annoying as I am?"Clara, visibly taken aback, paused and then burst into laughter. "Well, Father, I was about to say the same thing about you!"

The Man, The Daughter, and The Mirror of Annoyance

Enough, let's call off this endless siege.We are not duellists circling, swords drawn in fading light.This isn't a cold war waged in silent glares and bitter words.Stand with me, not as adversaries, but as equals,Our shared past a testament, not a battleground. I see the fortress in your eyes,But tearing me down won’t rebuild your walls—It doesn’t even come close.This siege must end. Release me,Let the barricades crumble,Drop the guards of control,Strip away the armour of the wronged.

This siege must end

At the nadir of the tether, I spin,her finger nudges—imperceptible, yet immense.Compelled, I ascend the string,nearly touching—yet not—the surface of her skin. With a sudden dip of her finger,I spiral downward, to the start.Her motions guide me, a dance of ascent and descent,until, with scissors poised, she contemplates the end. The ambiguity hangs heavier than the cut:Snip.I collide with the ground, still spinning,lost in the echoes of what this might mean.FSF

Thieves parked in an ally waiting and planning the way they will rob their target.

I don’t mind that you took my horse.The banjo? Take it.The pennies in my jar were nothing.But damn you for stealing my illusion;that sense of safety when my eyes shut at night. I never questioned it, until I had to,until it was all I could think about.So, damn you. Damn you deeply.FSF

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The Dog in the suburb

How the cat plays

The Man, The Daughter, and The Mirror of Annoyance

This siege must end

She

Thieves of Illusion