Russian Roulette

Today I’m acquainted with a peculiar sensation – a sense of life revolving recurrently around a game of Russian roulette and I’m holding the gun to my own head. Why else then would judgments make or break a person with such permanence? People aren’t always allowed to make hopeful choices in life; every shot you partake of comprises of loaded chambers, a series of hits and misses, chance and luck. My finger on the trigger, I’m left deftly undecided.

Today I’m looking upon the future like I’m staring down the barrel of a loaded gun – how long more before the bullet hits me? Murakami’s gaping black hole were thou always lying in wait or have I always carried that infinitesimally bottomless abyss within? One day perchance it shall swallow me whole and hungry. When that comes I shall pray to my atheistic goddess that my fall into the chasm would be quick and painless. All I know is, no one would really be there to catch anyone. Rather, we selfish beings have learnt to save our own asses. Afterall, we all perish alone.

It is a cold night and I am smelling like the sea from the walk I just took along the river. Unless I make a choice now, the big ocean would be out of reach and I would end up a washed up sea-shell. Close up now and keep swimming against the current, only then will you really get somewhere.

Perhaps it’s really time to go.


Published by VIKTORIA JEAN


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