I am mortal.
It is the heat ablaze in my chest that tells me so. It is the warmth that coats my naked body, the sweat that envelops it. It is the cling film embrace of humidity that buries me alive. Alive. It is the pointed feel of cold steel lodged between my eyes that tells me I am alive. And mortal.
I reach for my piece but I know I’m not packing any. Instinct. Never fails you. It’s the other part of thinking that trips you up and leaves you without a gun when you need one. The Rational Approach. And it’s all the weapon I have on me. I close my eyes and consult The Rational Approach. What should I do now?
A blow to the jaw and my world takes a tumble. The nuts in my head roulette around. It takes a while for the noodle to unscramble and The Rational Approach flashes like a cheap neon sign. Concentrate and ask again, it says. No fucking magic 8-ball, this.
I should have stayed off the wagon. When you’re drinking, you’re not thinking. You operate from the base, the core, the gut. All fat of perception and learning skimmed off the nerve. You are animal, poised for fight or flight. Fight.
I need a drink and I have a gun pasted to my head. Don’t we all? Mortality. It’s a fucking joke, a prank, a gag we can’t see the point to. It’s a grand piano falling on somebody’s head. It’s a bus, a train, a taxicab. It’s the curler that slips into the bath tub. The elevator floor that gives way. There’s always a gun somewhere. Always. Why should now be any different?
I am mortal. But I’m not dead. Not just yet