Wants A Gun / by The Black Lex Luthor

He thought if he left, things would change, all would be new, his world re-arranged. There was just too much of nothing, like a hole within a hole where life moved so slow it was stifling. He wanted to avoid the trifling haunts that called to him like the legendary Sirens, a cacophony in his ear, rifling through his mind making it difficult to think. The bars, the nightclubs, the drinks. He thought of God and family: what would they think?

Frustration mounts, a thick pain in his head that punches and stabs, a killing stroke, until he bleeds his dreams in black inked words. He seeks the light in all things, looking to the changes as divined fortune, whether ill or blessed, no matter the outcome, God knows best. We are built for struggle, he recalls, as the Bible tells of trials and tribulations that will ensue, the challenges of life, must be accepted and expected. Welcome the strife. It’s useless to resist.

Forgetting is so soothing, yet it is dangerous, so we look to find the balance between. He ventures to the shaming balance, his ego dancing on the edge of disdain, caring and wanting to be care-free. What a conundrum that keeps him treading away from the answer, playing games to rid himself of the questioning devils licking at his angst. He wants to laugh, he wants to run. He wants peace and he wants a gun.

He left anyway, a woman on his mind and greenbacks beckoning. No reason to stay. No one needed him. It was the end of those days, as they say.