"Save Everyone But Yourself"

April 25th, 2013; tumblr

I’m thinking of blowing my brains out. Let me rephrase. I’m imagining the act of shooting myself in the head. So, that’s where I am right now. I want to fight. I want to argue. I want to make the right choice. I want to do the right thing. But then blam-o! Here I sit, thinking about the escape trajectory of a bullet as it transgresses my frontal cortex. There’s a joke in there somewhere.

I’m tired. I tire of playing this game. I tire of this, this inclination, to be a “hero.” No one wants one. Who am I to determine what people need anyway? Add egotism to the list I suppose. How’d I even get here? How’d this even start? Oh, right, of tiny pieces of metal cobbled pointy. No writers are turning in their graves and I’m pretty sure all my English/Writing/Composition/WHATEVER instructors are still alive, so pardon me as I continue to butcher.

Of all the crap in the world, it always comes back to that doesn’t it? Once there was a man. And for a period of time, he was a carver. Staring at the blades day-in and day-out, dwelling in the misery that was living, he’d find himself lost in thoughts of “What if’s” and “Why not’s.”

I remember the London broil. It was always, rare. I recall the gamble. Would this be the incision that produced the pool? Or would this be the one time the board wouldn’t be covered in blood and fat? Brown paper napkins to soak it all up. The heat from the lamps and how they’d singe my hands. The feel of latex or whatever synthetic was on hand to produce the appearance of sanitary. How did I not become a vegetarian? How did I not kill myself there? Right, cause I was “Jim” back then.

For almost two months I’ve been stuttering, stammering, stumbling to find the words. I thought I’d lost them. I thought I gave them all away but it appears they’ve just been waiting here all along. Waiting everso patiently for the day I’d need them again. Whether that day be dark or showered in light. Or, I’m just stupid.

So what are we fighting this time? Are we hopeless again? Are we happy? Are we just reconsidering our life again? Who are we again? There’s the real question. Who’s at the wheel? Who’s even writing this time? Not like it matters. Not really. We know what we’re here for. We know why and how and every sign that points to it.

It was a beautiful dream.