My sanity is playing Russian roulette. I can't be certain, because I haven't heard from it for weeks, but I'm almost positive that somewhere, in a dark, blood-stained alley, it has a machine-gun to its temple, and is praying for a blank, and at the same time, screaming silently for death. Tears are streaming downs its face as it confronts its own mortality, hands tremble so hard the gun threatens to drop from its weak grip. It knows this is it. Today's the day; the day to become just another statistic, another spray of blood in this alley of broken dreams. And it only knows because every gun before the machine gun didn't work, every gun left it breathing.
As I type, a grime-coated finger is curling around the trigger. Death is imminent. My sanity is playing Russian roulette for the last time.
Or so I assume.
I don't want to die a nobody. I don't want to die knowing my mark on the world was as shallow and meaningless as a scratch in wood. I want to die knowing I did something, created something, exploded something, changed something... became something amazing. I want to write. I want to code. I want to draw. I want to fucking paint, man. I want to be completely and totally free to indulge in creativity in all its myriad forms. And I want that to be recognised.
I want a life less ordinary.
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© 2004-2008 Alan Speechley