The hurt has returned. The blaze has turned my brain to the color of embers. The shit-storm began four days ago. From out of the blue, stealing power from the patterns of the past, by late afternoon the fatigue has run me down. I can hear the beast's heat on my neck. I know what's going to happen. As fast as I run, it is no use. By the time i am tackled, I am drained. My blood is red and running over the ground.
It is death by a thousand cuts...
The last two days my head's been taken hostage. My brain burns. I turn inwards. Everything, from listening to laughing becomes difficult. I think of the men i have known, who in their sixties have fought a courageous battle. Decades of chronic pain changes the core of who you are. From emotion, right down to one's D.N.A. These men's choice to load a bullet in the chamber, to usher the wife out for an errand, to walk to the dresser drawer and pull out that killing machine.
I can close my eyes and see one in particular. It was all business. It had to be done. His mind, decided, tired, surrendered. In his mind, he meant no dis-respect to anyone, especially his family. The pain won, he knocked over his King.
Fifteen years of gas-brain? Who is to say I wouldn't click in a bullet. I can't say.
ken
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