A Man Having a Breakdown on the Beach With a Random Dog

There was a man in the big wide world who never knew affection; he only knew that people who brought him to life did so with their own egoistic intentions, and that people around him were too busy surviving to lend him some of their hearts' warmth. So he did the same thing to them— did nothing, that is. He stared into the dog's clever brown eyes. "Go away," he said. The dog didn't move. The man puffed and turned to walk away. The seashore's icy biting wind was making his eyes water, and he didn't like the feeling. He huddled in his coat, decisively going away from the living and breathing and warm being behind him, feeling like he's betraying it a little. Ridiculous. The dog barked once, and the man shut his eyes. The peace and quiet of the shore was deafening to him. The seagulls cried, the dog kept staring and he could feel and see and hear that stare, and the waves murmured another eternal story in a language he couldn't understand. His eyes were burning. It's as if the world wanted him to cry, even if the tears he'd shed were only the body's defense mechanism against the cold. Why did life pay so much attention to him when he was the weakest? Or was it all a matter of his own perception? He stopped, his shoulders tense. The dog, the seagulls, the wind, the waves. Why was the world so loud? Because... What was it he thought? Because he wanted it to be loud? The man breathed in and out. His eyes pricked, and it was harder to resist the tears this time. The dog barked again, a sharp sound that seemed to have cut his nerves in two. "Damn you," he whispered. He liked dogs, actually, even the smelly stray ones, even with their fur wet and dirty. They often had eyes cleverer than some people's. It's just that today, it was all too much, and he didn't want any more of the world's attention than he'd already gotten that day. What was it he thought? A matter of perception? It was colder now, and he wanted to give in to tears now, and wasn't it shameful? What was it he thought? He shut his eyes but tears broke free, burning straight hot and wet lines on his cheeks. He sniffed, and the world was so cold, and he shut his eyes so that the world disappeared, and then nothing existed—there was just him, and the cold, and the blackness. He sniffled. Wasn't he just pathetic? And even if he was—did it matter, really? He put his arms around himself and held tightly, because he was the only one capable to protect himself from all the misery that flooded the world. His legs felt weak but he didn't want to fall and draw any more of the seashore's attention; his thoughts and his huddled lone frame were loud enough for that. So he lowered himself to the ground and the wet sand. Somewhere out there, there were people doing yoga and drinking and throwing housewarming parties with other people they called friends and mates and colleagues—and how did they cope with all that living when he was out there, all by himself, breathing too loudly, turning too much oxygen into carbon dioxide, and not even doing anything, and it already felt too much? He breathed, and breathed, and he knew trees would take that CO2 of his and turn it into life again, so that everyone had enough of their share. The trees wouldn't let him be this selfish, there was always some kind of balance in the world, and he hoped that for his misery there would be balance, too. That the world wouldn't hurt him, standing there on his knees under the gusts of wind and murmur of the water. That the world would embrace him, let him live and breathe. The sounds—thank god—became quieter and farther away. Only the dog returned, and licked his palm. The man shivered, eyes still shut, and he hoped that it was ok if he didn't answer the dog right away. He needed a bit more time. But the dog, it seemed like it didn't mind, not in one bit, and the man wondered why it'd stop barking, and he thought back to the days when he'd been one of those sharing warmth with mates and family and the girl he thought he loved, silly. It took him a moment, two, three, and more breathing, and the blackness seemed more friendly now, and he sagged, shifting the weight to the heels of his feet. The dog sniffed him and licked his palm once more. He was ready to open his eyes, and he conveyed a portion more of that oxygen to that good old CO2 because he knew the trees would be there for him to alleviate the damage, and the dog was close, alive and living and breathing, too, and he was ready to share warmth with it. And so when he did, it felt better.