The Bullet

      I stare down at the bullet again, looking at the ridges that cave into the hollow point. It's the daily reminder that I am worth more dead than alive. .40 S&W round traveling through my mouth out the top of my skull won't solve shit.  It just leaves me a coward and my family without me. I look at the news and the people I know and there are so many desperate people out there.  A photo of me and my bike crosses my view on my cell, the one thing that use to bring me back to life sits idle.
      I use to be able to strap on my helmet and find a canyon road and just let go of all that was built up inside of me, it was my escape. My sanctuary. In a sense it was my church. As I could ride and spend time listening for the spirit in my heart to start talking again. The last ride I had the voice in my heart didn't even stir.
     I don't want to talk to anyone, I try to pray but all that seems to come about is a kaleidoscope of  thoughts that have nothing to do with what is on my heart or mind. The bullet is such a simple tool. I roll it around in my hand and feel the weight. One of the qualities of being a wise man is knowing your limitations. I think I have reached my limit. I have said goodbye to friendships that lasted over two decades. I have watched truth get twisted too many times. I have watched people get job offers and bitch about it.  Each time the slap across face stings a little more. Part of me just wants to tell them to shut the fuck up, or spend a day in my life.  Come on you have three offers to decide on.  My phone doesn't even ring.
    I am thinking today is the day I just say "fuck it" and go silent. My voice or words are just that. Words. Depression is a bitch when you know you are there and you can't find a way to climb the hell out of it.