Cold Gun

It's pretty late. 2:13 AM to be exact. I'm tired. I can't sleep. I can't remember the last time I slept more than five hours in the past few months. I don't know why I've decided to write this now. I've never written anything quite like this.

I would be lying if I said that the thought of ending it all right now wasn't enticing. The feeling of the cold gun pressed against my temple, the over-whelming sensation of total dominance and sheer fear for my own life makes the room hazy like all of the half-smoked cigarettes I was too scared to finish because of my asthma. This cold gun, slowly warming up and shaking in my sweaty palm. My finger rests on the trigger, eager to finish.

10. I'm finally doing this.

9. I won't stop this time.

8. Keep counting.

7. Almost half-way there.

6. Close your eyes.

5. Stop shaking.

4. It'll be over soon.

3. Inhale.

2. Exhale.

1. Do it.

A click, then silence.

I can see my limp body on the floor, but I can't recognize my own lifeless face. That's not the same person who used to sit for hours reading, writing, laughing at everything. That's not the same person who believed that life was worth living, that things will look up, get better. That's not the same person who was patient, who was willing to wait for hours in dressing rooms or amusement park lines, and thought that time was limitless, completely up for grabs.

No. This person, this vessel that carried all that weight, all the self-doubt, pain, and depression is just another victim of the wild and sardonic roller-coaster aptly named life. This person was one of the many tormented by the sleek, tantalizing glint of the cold gun, but was one of the few who was brave enough to end it with a flick of the trigger. 

Just think about it for a moment. The human body, capable of many extraordinary things and the ability to create life itself could easily be compared to a machine. If humans are knowledgeable enough to build machines, infrastructures, make countless innovations in science, and even aid in the inception of multiple life forms, why. Why is it so easy to shut everything down, to completely terminate life with a single bullet just like pulling the plug from a power strip? Why are we so fragile, yet so capable of greatness at the cost of weakness?

It's because we are not perfect machines. There is no perfect machine. The hardest steel will eventually rust. The fastest machine will eventually wear out. Even the most technologically advanced computer will become outdated in time.

It's when you realize that all of the things you thought were insignificant, without definition, that you've wasted what you believed to be unimportant fragments of time when all along, they were the most precious pieces to the dysfunctional and beautiful puzzle of your life. 

The well-oiled machine that once ran as clean as a whistle jolted to a halt by something as simple as inertia. The gift of life you handled like a Christmas gift that came with a returnable gift receipt stopped in its tracks.

Life, ended solely by the smoke rolling off the end of the cold gun.