Atlanta, Georgia, is a catastrophe; the rush is loud, there is no outlet for me. Well, hello cul-de-sac. Commiserate. Compensate. Commencement. The lines of this home, a thousand points of light: memories flood back into me. Who was that little bag of chemicals, so fresh from the womb running around in the green grass? A little girl? In the arms of her parents? Smiling?
A morbid beauty, glows in resignation.
I think about killing myself. Sometimes the thought of a shotgun blowing off my head is the only way I can lull myself off and into sleep. I just replay it over and over again like a GIF, soothing; the emptiness and openness of my skull.
Consecutive days and plain afternoons.
The things in life
They pass the time by
No… Don’t worry… I know a bit too much about myself now. Suicide is not for me. All the half-ass attempts, the cawing, the weakness. The swallowed pills. The knife trying to penetrate my throat…. The drugs… When you get close; things change, there is a flash not of light, but of fear that is so wretched and awesome you have to pull yourself back…
Perhaps it’s the medication that makes it impossible for me to write, but makes me see clearly that despair is not death. Imagine a movie portraying despair. It doesn’t just present a black, empty screen. It presents life as despair, and even when there is a death in a movie, it’s not death that despairs; it’s what death does to those who remain living… True despair is staying alive. And I choose life until the day old age takes me away.
Now the distance clears.