by Ezra Spurlock
“Damn… It’s hot in here”…. Did I say that out loud, or was it more of an inner thought exclaimed to be thought out loud? Of course there was no one else in the room, naturally, it wouldn’t matter, however, I had this gnawing emotionally outrageous concept, stewing, fermenting, thought, dropping like flower pots, being tossed with accurate emotion, out an eighth story window, to the littered streets below. This one, careless, or rather, non-contentious thought, no. Perhaps, it is more of an ideology, presented to the masses of my inner sanctum, my inner child plying mounds of dirt into clumps of nothing in particular, waiting to be stepped upon by anyone with even half an intellect. Words formed, letters spaced at certain intervals, interlaced, interwoven, spread about.
“Turn off the heat”….
Again, spoken. Thought. Enraged depravity sulking about like one armed bandit whores waiting to be condemned to another twenty-dollar bill stuffed into immediate self loathe.
“They will come, when you die”…
This spoken aloud. This I know. I felt my lower lip depart from the top lip. Tongue, momentarily slipping in between teeth, making way towards lip, whetting with just enough saliva to vent departure. My throat lunging in vociferous anticipation, like a crowd speaking acknowledgement that never arrives. My thoughts begin to emerge, like corpses of long dead goldfish jumping through hoops of toilet bowl seats. They will come when you die, if you are important enough. This thought was headed somewhere. The train was leaving the station, when suddenly, someone shouted, “Stop the train!”. We all continue waiting.
We all continually wait for this thought to emerge beyond these digressing words. These snippets of nothing. Yet, we continually wait for the thought to be completed. I remember thinking, I was actually headed in a particular direction with a thought. Something about, they will come when you die, but they will really come when you die spectacularly. If you take a gun, shove it just so, towards the inner eye of your ear, beads of sweat dripping endlessly, like juice from an orange being squeezed between clenched fingers, because, after all, you are about to cease being. You know this. You feel this. You experience true life. This very moment, you are actually living. This split second, before the hair trigger is caressed by your perspiration dampened fore finger, it slips, in misappropriated pressure, engaging this finely machined trigger mechanism, thus entrapping a catch in the springs, firing a round through your ear, into your inner ear, following a path into your inner demons, straight through to the other side of your skull, catching bits of bone, blood, hair, and of course brain matter.
Now, curled up in a rather slumped fashion, against some piece of furniture, you slowly die. You die slowly, because you knew very little about the correct method of killing oneself. Ah, but now you are learning. The shock is beginning to leave your senses, now something unrecognized. Pain. Excruciating, bare nerve in upper jaw toothed pain, uncontrolled chainsaw meets both, right and left upper thighs, pain. Pain that can only be recollected from past incidents, yet there is a slight edged roughness to this particular pain. Perhaps, it is because you know you are going to die in this manner. This fashion. You are going to be no more. This will be your last thought. Pain. Somehow, this is terribly ironic. You decided just last Wednesday, that you would end your life, to finally be rid of “The Pain” caused by some emotional distress or other, instilled into you, by one or more daily talk show hosts. Your inner child smiles, laughs and claps hands while stomping feet in joyful astonishment. You, however, are doing everything in the exacting decomposed opposite of anything considered to be joyful.
An epiphany wanders into your everlasting and last thought. You don really want to die.
Now, what to do?
“Everyone will remember you at your funeral”…
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