free

 

What is it to be free?

Free from worry, free from life, free from trying.

 

Do you know my past?

Many years ago, I had a gun. A Colt Cobra .38 seven shot snub nose revolver. It was a beautiful blue, and I could shoot. I have always been able to.

Once, only once, I pointed it at a man – a man I intended with all of my heart to kill. I was lost, alone, cast out from myself. There was empty, and then – there was me, far below.

The day before I rode to my work, a job working for 12.50 an hour on Harley’s with $4000.00 paint jobs, and as usual in those days, I parked my bike, took off my leather and helmet, opened up the second drawer from the top where there was a pad and pen and began writing again. I wrote like a fever then, on everything I could find – receipts, bar napkins, my hands… to get the pain out.

To get the pain out.

That grey day in San Diego was different though. I did the same things, my ritual, my writing, but only a short time had passed before Sean P. Moran, my best friend at the time, tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey – are you okay?” “Yeah, just need to write.” “Okay, but Steve…” “Fuck Steve. I’ll get to work as I always do, soon.”

Steve was the manager of the entire shop and show, an ex-cop. I looked at my hands, noticed they were shaking, then turned and looked at him, a strange concern on his face as he stood looking at me behind the window. I looked up a bit to the clock so I could have a good reason to tell him that it has only been minutes and to tell him to fuck off, but then noticed – I turned around to the three lines on the paper, then looked at a different clock, just to be certain.

It was 11:30. I had been standing there for three hours. Three Hours.

It was then that I knew what I had inside, and knew it needed to be gone. I found a stranger, sat him down on my lonely and beautiful bed with the covers constructed so meticulously, and got my pistol. As I shoved it so hard against the roof of his mouth I imagined the blood, the splatter of his head on my wall, and was perfectly fine with it. Hammer cocked, finger pressing on the trigger, I knew that this needed to happen – to release me or find me.

I know I could never kill an animal. Not again, as I have been a hunter, gun in arms – but a human? The lowest form. A human I know I could kill if, and only if, they deserved it.

So many people are tediously wrapped up in death, but I have seen it, lived through it, and know that it is a blessing. Yes, I am sorry for your loss, but it is YOUR loss. It is my loss. We need to quit being so selfish, know that they are where they need to be, spill a spot on the ground in honor and drink for their life.

All of you who judge my drinking, all of you who think you are perfect, all of you must know that the only reason I am alive is because of you, think on this as I have. As I Always Do.

~ ~ ~

Finger on the trigger and hammer cocked, just a little bit more pressure,

then I tasted the steel. My finger, my head, my tongue licking the barrel. I was the doomed stranger. I took the gun out of my mouth and saw the blood imprint on my finger. Tomorrow will always be better. This is what I wrote after that.

3/24/99

 

because there isn’t anything

that makes sense anymore

 

because there isn’t anything

that i have to make me smile right now

and the pain of my impatience

has control over me

and i feel

futile like nothing will ever

be complete

and i hate it all right now

and i hate you all

right now

and fuck this place

and fuck this job

and fuck this morning

and fuck you people

and fuck this page

fuck the moon

fuck the sun

fuck the stars

fuck this life of nothing from nothing and

i would love to open myself up

and feel this poisoned blood

leave me

watch as it stains the sheets

a final crimson

watch this morning

and everything else

 

disappear

 

as my eyes slowly close

 

but wouldn’t that be

just so fucking

redundant

 

and what if tomorrow is just

 

a little bit

 

better

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I am free now.

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