The Dogs That Bark the Truth Away
Among all the weapons the wolves have forged — the claws, the gold, the laws, the alliances — none are as powerful as their dogs.
The dogs hold the mic. They fill the air with endless noise — barking, growling, whining — until no one can think straight. They keep the poor wolves glued to their dens, eyes wide open, minds shut tight. Every bark tells them who to hate, who to fear, who to blame.
“Look over there,” the dogs say, “the bears are stealing your food.”
“The owls are plotting against you.”
“The foxes are corrupt.”
“The roosters are dangerous.”
And while the forest divides itself in outrage and suspicion, the wolves feast quietly in the dark.
The dogs never stop. Twenty-four hours a day, they bark through the glowing boxes, the whispering vines, the forest echoes. They amplify the wolves’ lies until they sound like truth. They rewrite history, painting the wolves as heroes who never harmed unless forced to. And to soothe the hungry wolves who struggle to find food, the dogs chant their lullaby:
“You’re not poor. You’re chosen. You’re better than everyone else.”
And so, comforted by illusion, the wolves remain loyal to their masters, never realizing their hunger is by design. The dogs don’t hunt. They don’t build. They don’t heal. Their only purpose is to keep the forest distracted and divided. To bark so loud that the cries of the real victims are drowned beneath the noise.
Because in the wolves’ world, truth doesn’t need to be silenced — it only needs to be outshouted.
When the Bark Becomes a Howl
Time has passed in the forests, but the wolves still play from the same old playbook. The tricks have been refined — shinier, faster, more sophisticated — yet the essence remains unchanged. Control. Deceit. Distraction.
But the forest itself is no longer the same. The animals are evolving. They read, they learn, they question. Many now hold their own mics, their own vines and echoes to share their voices. And to the dismay of the wolves, the stories once written in their gilded history books are crumbling. The myths are being dismantled, the lies exposed, the masks peeled away. The buried crimes are resurfacing like bones in the dirt.
The wolves are being challenged — not by armies, but by awareness. By truth spreading faster than their propaganda. At first, they tried to adapt. They smiled wider, befriended other animals, pretended to care. But beneath the smiles, impatience brewed. Their power, once absolute, began to tremble. And when their rage burns too bright to hide, they lash out and they release their dogs.
They send their dogs. The dogs — the loudest creatures in the forest. They bark day and night, flooding the airwaves with noise. The dogs are paid not in bones, but in attention, in loyalty, in illusion. Their task: to keep hatred alive in their bodies, their minds, and their souls. To flood the forest with noise so thick that no one can hear the truth anymore, that’s their wolf’s dream.
And when a courageous animal dares to rise — like that bull who speaks the real news and gives proof— the dogs swarm. They bark in unison, drowning out his words, hoping that if they bark loud enough, long enough, they can bury the truth beneath chaos.
But something is shifting. The forest is listening differently now. For every bark meant to silence, a whisper of truth echoes louder. And slowly, even a few wolves begin to wonder — what if the stories they were told were never true at all?
The Sun Doesn’t Bark
Have you ever seen the sun make noise to assert its identity? Never. It simply rises — radiant, effortless, undeniable.
But the wolves, though they claim superiority and believe it deep within their centuries-old delusion, cannot exist without constant proof of it. They pass laws to prevent others from entering their light. They place dogs at the gates, at every level of the system, to keep the charade alive.
And yet, the saddest story is not the wolves. It’s the dogs.
They bark so much they never stop to think, never pause to look around and see. They don’t notice that every time one dog dies, another is trained to take its place. The barking never ends — not because it matters, but because it must.
The dogs are not protectors. They are tools. And when a tool grows dull or tired, it is replaced — swiftly, quietly, without a second thought.
Because in the wolves’ world, even loyalty is disposable.
And the forest waits, silent, for the day the dogs realize — the sun never needed to bark.
🐺 The Collapse of Noise
The wolves built their empires on being the loudest. But noise can’t hold power forever — eventually, silence starts to speak.
And when it does, it doesn’t scream. It just stands there, unbothered, like the truth that no longer needs defending. The dogs keep barking, the wolves keep performing, but the forest isn’t listening anymore.
The trees remember. The rivers whisper. And the echoes of all the silenced voices rise — not in fury, but in clarity.
That’s how empires fall, not with explosions or wars, but when the noise finally stops mattering, and every creature begins to hear itself think again.
Salima
Just me thinking out loud over here