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What do you feel, staring into the barrel of a gun?
Is it fear of dying, dread of what comes after you draw your final breath? Cold sweat on your temples, a shiver running down your spine as you’re unable to move an inch and you freeze on the spot? Do you pray to God like you were taught as a child, or does your mind go completely blank as the smell of gunpowder hits your nostrils?
Do you put up a fight? Throw fists, knowing all too well there’s nothing you can do to save yourself, yet wanting to perish with honour? Or do you lay on the ground, obedient as a dog, accepting your fate, almost begging the executioner to get it over with already?
And what do you feel, watching people die in front of you?
Despair from witnessing human suffering? Helplessness, as you can’t protect them? Guilt, because it’s not you who’s leaving the earthly sorrows behind?
You had a peek at the future that excluded people you cared about. They say every man is the architect of their own fortune, but you skipped school on the day they taught technical drawing. Your world is going down in flames and you’re standing on the sideline, pouring gasoline over whatever’s left.
And what’s left is half a person you once knew and the guilt you two share. God was merciful enough to spare you, but some days - most days - you think you’d be better off dead. The wound is still open and fresh years down the line and you doubt it’ll ever fully heal.
Let me ask again - what do you feel staring into the barrel of a gun?
Relief that it’s finally over? Serenity at the prospect of laying to rest, at last?
Where’s your God now? Betrayed and crucified by his own people, and you can’t count on his help anymore; so you count your blessings and claw your way to the surface as you dig yourself out of the shallow grave that won’t embar you - for now.
Grief tastes like strawberry shortcake, bruschetta and red wine, and it eats away at you every time you look at the Sun setting over the sea. The voices and the laughter are still ringing in the four walls and the empty seats are still warm like somebody has just left the table, but the reservation called for a dinner for two from the beginning.
Now, what do you feel looking into the eyes of the person you love?
You cast your eyes down because you can’t handle it. Selfless affection cuts deeper than a blade when you’re miserable enough; a bullet to your skull would be easier to accept than a kiss to your forehead. No rest for the wicked - you’ll be damned whether you allow yourself to reciprocate the feelings or not.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown and heavy is the heart that watches the crown being worn; if you put them on scale pans, they’ll balance each other out. That’s why the two of you fit together so well, despite being like fire and water.
As you say your ‘Hail Mary’s and your ‘Sub tuum praesidium’s, does your mind go to places you’d rather not let it wander into? How many times have you tried to say some words out loud but they wouldn’t go past your throat, so instead of speaking to the person who should have heard them, you turned to God and lamented your inability to communicate your innermost feelings?
You might be silver-tongued, but the silence is golden. If that’s the case, you two should be the richest men alive; but the only thing you have is each other. Home is where your heart is, and you can't afford the rent, so you take out a mortgage on a house with a garden, because a single-bedroom apartment wouldn’t contain both of you, zealous and free-spirited dreamers. The legal implications of loaning the money don’t matter much, though, because you were already indebted - to the people that came before you and shaped you into who you are today - and in the shadow of a tree you planted you can finally unwind and rest, for evermore.
Until the day comes when the head wears a wreath of wild flowers,
and your heart grows butterfly wings,
through thick and thin,
you will persist.