Winston Churchill described his unwelcome internal companion as his black dog.

Hiding prone and just out of site, it lurks, never far and always waiting to be summoned unwanted by a silent whistle. The whistle might be blown by some event, or perhaps by a careless word from someone. Or perhaps by nothing immediately discernible, but that only comes into being much later.

The dog is with me now.

It is making my head throb and my heart beat painfully in my chest. I shall paint shortly in the garage, alone, save for the dog. Loud symphonic extreme death metal music drowns out some of its incessant silent barking at least, but not all. And between songs I know that it is still lurking. It is clear in my mind and although it makes no sound, all I can hear is the infernal noise of its silence. It stares at me with dark and unblinking eyes that drag down at my eyelids, although I cannot sleep properly. I look tired and old. It's been with me forever, and likely always will be.

When the symbolism is stripped away, all that is left is a chemical imbalance in the brain. I could medicate - forever? And then, would I be medicating myself away? We are a pair, the dog and me. The dog takes me for long and painful walks into creativity, and without it, I fear the loss of something greater than the pain that it costs me.

I try to visualise the dog. It is a large breed. Possibly a Labrador Retriever, and most it just sits. It doesn't bark, or snarl or make any aggressive moves. It just sits. Watching. Its presence has a sound to it, although I can't directly hear it.