Smith n Wesson [Fictionish]

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Sir Salty, Mar 11, 2016.

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  1. This is a fictinalized version of my thoughts of me. So don't be alarmed.


    Take a good hard look. This is a Smith and Wesson, J frame, defensive revolver. Did they ask me, why a guy like me bought the thing? Nope. They just told me, well you don't look like a criminal, here have this gun. I threw four hundred dollars at the man behind the counter and now just look at it. Dark, steel frame. It's speaking to me.

    My life been the groundwork of fucked up, for the majority half of my life. Even as a kid, life just one day woke up and said, “you're going to have a terrible time”. And I took it. I took it for twenty-eight years. Except admitting that makes me sound like I am sissing out. “See ya bitches”.

    Except it's more than that. I am not an individual who failed, but an individual failed by a system, that was too slow, not urgent in its steps. I am an individual who was failed by a society, that was uncaring, non compassionate, and non empathetic to those in need.

    And all the friends I know. All the people I know are indoctrinated by sensationalism. Our advertisements are uncharacteristically optimistic. Our technology tells us to be happy. Our televisions shows say it's not okay to embrace and listen to the suck of your life. So, when you try to talk to people, they point the finger at me. I am not doing enough.

    Yet, I am doing all that I can. I already took the steps, I began the processes. I walked into social security and said I am as desperate as the rest of these assholes. They said, okay, here's the money you'll get. But we'll take our time to process your application anyway. I walked into an assisted living program, and said I am as desperate as the rest of these fuckwads. They said, okay, here's what you need to do. A bureaucratic systematic pieces of paperwork that will help you.

    You'll just need time. Time I don't fucking have. When the place, everyone else calls home, I call a prison. A cage. I am a social criminal, wandering the busy streets on prejudice lane and trying to make right with my life.

    My family doesn't really give a fuck anyway. There wasn't enough, I love yous in this family. There wasn't enough, I care for you, in this family. There wasn't hugs, there wasn't enough kisses. There wasn't ever enough of affection.

    My “friends” if I can call them that. Feign support. Feign caring, but do they honestly care. When they give dismissive platitudes. They tell me, I am too cynical, too dark, too pessimistic. But there is wisdom in pessimism. Though pessimism and realistic are two sides of the same coin. I simply lowered my expectations of what life has to offer. I simply don't wear roses tinted glasses, I don't stick happy filters on my cellphone and smile.

    Because I see reality. I am looking through the whole of my life. The whole of everything I knew. Know. Wanted. Desire. Needed. With my realistic goggles on. While everyone else is wearing happy filters. And when I give them a taste. Just a peak of what's behind their lenses. They gasp in shock and awe. They are scared of the out there.

    It's why I am too cynical. Why I am too pessimistic to them. Because they are afraid to face the unknown truth. So, when I buying a Smith 'n Wesson, and no one asked me what it's for. It's because our world is painted with this horrendous reality.

    Life is up to an individual. It always has been. What I choose to do with my life or with my death, is up to me. I shouldn't be judge, criticized, maimed, or put on a newspaper, that says I tragically took something in an unwarranted selfish action.

    Because, the reality is no one ever ask themselves, when they lose someone important. What was the importance of their life?

    If my life has been moving from home to home. The inability to keep up regular finances. The inability to keep a relatively stable job. Or a relatively stable state of mind. What weight, what importance does a life have? When the individual in question cannot even meet the basic standards of living.

    The basic standards of living that should be a given right to anyone. Food, shelter, and financial stability.

    Instead we criticize and judge those on welfare. Without compassion. Without mercy. Instead we criticize the individual who cannot keep a job. Words of malice. Without empathy. Just another lazy asshole who didn't want to work.

    These are not symptoms of an individual. But symptoms of a society. That fails. Denies. It's own sickness. And when it is criticized. When that society is criticized, for the crazy, maliciousness, behind those rose tinted glasses. It denies it. It denies there is anything wrong. It says, that it's always the individuals fault.

    This world is nearly as fake, as the smile on my face. I pretend to be happy, while others are forced to be happy. Sickly extroverted optimist telling the world, how it should be. Where introverted hopeless romantics sit in corners, seeing problems, and wanting them fixed. Only to know, that this sick society, will push them further away. Till, two things happen. That individual takes their life. Or that individual will live miserably for the rest of their days.

    We should be kinder.
    We should be more compassionate.
    We should be more empathetic.

    But that's all idealism. I know that. I know society will never be able to live the course of that existence.

    I ask myself. As the mercy of my own hostage situation, between my suicide, and my life. What do optimist see when they see someone truly hurt and suffering? What does the world see when someone loses their life? Another loses their life. Do they blame society or do they blame the individual?

    I ask myself. How many graves, how many deaths do we need, before we decide there needs to be a change in society?

    I ask myself. How can I push towards change? Reform to change. I use to think it was my writing. I use to think if I wrote enough. If I shared enough ideas, that people would listen. People would read what I say and say, hey that makes a lot of sense. Yet, I realize that criticism comes right back.

    Self righteous. Pretentious. Cynical. Asshole. Who cares about no one, but himself. A prick who thinks he's better than everyone else.

    So society pushes me further away. Instead of helping people change. Instead of lighting a lantern, guiding people to see something down the tunnel. They push me away and I push them away because they don't want to see the problems I see.

    So I become a statistic instead. I become just another brain splatter on the pavement. Just another individual, who died. Because of a systematic machine. That was unfeeling. Unchanging. Unwilling to see the problems wrong with it.

    And for a while. My corpse, will be blamed on me. But maybe, this is how we get people to change.

    How many more lives will it take, for the world to recognize the problems are the problems of a single individual. That the individual is a symptom of something bigger. How many more people will needlessly die because they didn't even get the basics in life?

    We like to boast. Think we're better than all those silly third world countries. But are we really? Are we really better than those “poorer” countries? Why do we focus so much on the problems of others, and we have problems here. But they're considered insignificant, because we're not a third world country.

    There are individuals here, in our society, in our world. Without homes. Without money. Without food. Without stability. And we're dismissed. Told, there's somebody out there who has it worse. That doesn't help that individual. That doesn't help that person, because they still don't have their basic needs.

    This is the conversation I have with my Smith 'n Wesson. Looking down the long, black, stretch of a barrel. This is the conversation, I have with myself. A reflection in the mirror. Because no one else will listen. This is me preaching to a choir, that only has one following member.

    This is the conversation I have with my blood pulling onto the sidewalk. There's panic and horror on the faces of passersby. But the jokes on them. I am free from misery now. I am free from the chains that bind, criticize. And point at me as if I am the problem. Maybe I am part of it. But I am a single quarter of a whole.

    I was walking down the lines of prejudice lane and doing the right thing drive. The construction and detours were awful, the dead stop traffic is what killed me.
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