Poet Laureate my ass.
I seem to start a lot of stories that never get finished. There's a reason for that... If I ever get to writing it.
"Wishing for it only makes it bleed." - Tom Waits
You hold a gun in your hand. In another world you knew that it was a Ruger P-90 that held a ten-round, single stack magazine of .45 ACP ammunition. In that world you would have remembered to keep your front-sight discipline and not let your eyes focus on the target instead.
But you are stuck in a fixed state between worlds... The unfolding of macro-dimensions around your petty circumstance of confrontation. You don't remember to breath.
All you know is Squeeze
Bang
Drop
The Nihilist wants out tonight.
A bit of petty pain and after exposing myself and he's creeping out of the edges.
Like Mercutio, he's the one with the most passion of them all.
He burns because of what he protects... Annihilating any threat.
But what is he protecting now?
Is he protecting The Essence or his peers? The Artist and Lover stumbled.
The Nihilist is awakened.
I gave them all a small break this afternoon, but they stir... they writhe... they hunger.
I rode past the ashes on Franklin Street with the .45 in a gentle caress.
I had imaginary battles won with words.
But I did not ache to sleep.
I am drinking water. I am writing. I am winning over the Personality right now.
In the morning it won't have mattered anyway.
There will be a new moment to be present in and I will be blessed not to be burdened with the ashes of today.