The Gun 

My finger was seconds away from pulling the trigger. Standing in front of me was a figure I’ve come to know all too well. I felt inclined to end the existence of that form that stood before my eyes, but I hesitated. If I shot, the battle would cease and there would be no more uncertainty anymore. No more unanswered questions. No more undiscovered mysteries. The suffering would end, but so would the possibility of a happy ever after. It’s quite confusing as to how all those scenarios could be wrapped into one, but it’s a unique case I guess you could say. That figure embodies hope, but it also embodies despair. So when I waiver or consider ending it all, take a moment to envision yourself in my shoes. Know that this is torture. It’s prolonged heartbreak that seems to be never ending no matter what path I choose. Each path I see involves a new weapon, one that is far less lethal, but still inflicts harm, despite my efforts to maintain peace. I’ve come to the realization that no matter what, a wound, no matter how small, will come about from my actions. So I’m choosing a new weapon, not to purposely harm the figure, but to allow myself a release in order to feel again. I’ve set the gun down for now, because I’m not prepared to attend that funeral just yet. 

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