Under The Gun

"I'm constantly struggling to withhold myself from the detrimental mind set that I always retreat to - Why bother? Why am I here? I have no purpose, what is the use in trying? The answers themselves don't really come so much as separate in my skull, bleeding their clarity into lobes. I combat primal urges on a daily basis just to fit into society, a society that I don't even pretend to agree with. Of course it has points that I agree with, I'm not a killer, and I agree that it should be a crime. That doesn't constitute as agreeing with society though."

"We're under the gun"

"Yes, we are. Life is a battle to the death. It's a race, and I actually believe the quickest and least painful approach to the finish line is quite clearly the winner."

"Metaphorically speaking"

"Well of course, I could elaborate on how my mind set seems to disconnect and estrange me for weeks on end if you wish?"

"Do you have to? These poor people are probably tired of this already, I know I am.

"Love isn't so much a word as a person, you know"

"How do you mean?"

"Splash of red."


"And I whisper dark nothings into the world, silently screaming my distrust, my passion, my next waking moment into the blacks and blues of my skin, shunning reality, swallowing fantasy like a shot, under the gun I spoke too loud, condemning the ever growing, established thoughts on yesterday, the purple hazes of morning, the sins of now and the beast that I will become. Love is the song of no man's land, a sorrow beaten child with the voice of an wolf, tracing the words "yesterday never came" into the earth."

"You never explained yourself?"

"I shouldn't have to explain myself to you."

"Do we know if we're in love?"



"What is Love?"

"A sham"

"A voice"

"A reason" 


"Ten of us."

"Or Twelve?"

"Never mattered anyway, you can't change the world, because the world isn't there to be changed, it neither wishes to be manipulated or is it actually within a state that constitutes as something more than a concept, it's a dark space with voices, thousands of voices."

"That's just a mind"

"Who says that Earth isn't just a mind?"

"Well it isn't. Earth isn't a mind, as much as Love isn't a song, they have form, identity."

"I don't believe in what I can't see."

"You breathe don't you"

"Good question... do I?"

And the dark shuddered onwards, speaking in tongues, of heaven, of earth, of hell, of all the places that never formed a certainty, a probable definition of actuality, of places that resembled the innocence and celebration of love, yet harbored its dark hatred towards the human heart, with teeth as bright as the moon. 

"A moon in this dark place is as real as I care to believe."

The End

30 comments about this story Feed