An old advisory, a’skewed

In front of every great women is a man cocking it up and needing to be micro managed

Behind every great man is a women kicking his arse and bitching about what he’s doing wrong, how to do it right!

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Decisions on the edge of a knife

Sharp

Yellow!

Tempting

The wrist concealed itches for its touch, a jokingly dangerous jest for the every more deep wish to cut a few coveted strands of skin and release rivers of reddened life

In still hand it eerily rests idle of the task a threateningly fragile mood does seductively beacon forth, hollow emotions that lure faithful life to the sinking bleak as to an alcoholic does a bottle and a glass

Would he?

Could he?

Why wouldn’t he?

Ties that bind in life’s grand scheme of a joke are of two threads, the first of options we bring upon the mortally based equation by choice to seal ourselves from death, the second bound to us in the act of un-chosen arrival to the fatal play we call ‘To Live’

When the first of two threads grow straining weak the second must take unnatural weight, as to hold back a cliff sized enticement from the fall I could so easily take

“He was a good friend” follows the framing remark “but he was always a bit….”

Remorse, guilt, sadness, or would the wish to provoke such ugly emotional after effects of one’s untimely death be a socially perceived guilty want, a side affect of the corrupting depression that blends into every fated edge of a seemingly more so fated life

“How could he?” “So young” “I should have seen the signs”, not I fear the reaction an illicit shuffle from this mortal coil would emote

“Just a matter of time”…. Could you ask for anymore!

No, not yet

This a cursed battle will not claim the only faded fibre of my resistance yet, scars too deep and yet to fail the desired result hath given the message I am not so weak

Anyway, I’m a ‘Good Person’ and to kill myself would be the ultimate selfish act, he laughs!

I might be all the potential of a Grade-A A-Hole but that far? Not that fucked!!

Depression my old friend, load the pistol another day and pour me a god damn drink!!!

Life my old enemy, cupid to boot, FUCK YOU, you broke me so by all the unholy crapstorm of my continued presence on this bloody earth I will hauntingly persist to say FUCK YOU and make you feel it

“It ain’t pretty and it don’t work but if you’re damned, may as well be damned in style”
Said the Shadow to his former self

 

Life without the Razor

We all have a familiar hole to call sanctuary, fond memories to warmly rub our cold hands over as the encroaching darkness adds a chill to its approaching front in the face of new experiences that add an uneasy air of anxiety to the mix. Emotional blankets are the well-known, tried and tested to which longing hands reach for a tangible touch of what fails to betray or cheat us, whether this is a person, thing or coldly factual realisation it matters not but just that we have it.

The positive attuned have the shield of radiating merriness to light that dark encroach, the battle ready fighter possessing a sword to battle onto unknown shores with as much aggressive logic as that dark front can assemble to match, as the thinker applies knowledge as a torch to turn dark corners of uncertainty to clarity of fact. The negative attuned are to the rest pessimistic and bleakly minded in their droll sense of humour as dry as the glass of an AA member in a bar, no such glory to be seen in the over cast misery weighing down every laboured act into the unknown.

Depression is seen in common lure as a betrayal of human nature, an epithet of all that darkly seduces sufferers into self destructive acts as all the positivity hued paths offer so much rewarding more, for those upon enlightened paths have many branches of trust to perch on within that glorified tree of branching luck. From the perspective below a differing ally has an outreached hand in uncertain times to warm the flow of blackened blood, where once a fall from grace was laced with ill luck and failing chances a severe mistrust has grown in thorny fashion around that once bright bark.

So where in the terrible turn of events, storm fronts of anxiety hailing change to shake the very much developed bond with hatred soaked spite at all they lost, does the seemingly cursed turn to support those first few stammered steps? To the undertaker clad figure whom offers both a razor and corrupted torch…

The razor’s softly touch promises an escape if all sours in attempted efforts to advance and so the poorly reputable friend claims their prize as promised should that fated fall occur, the torch to burn the unwanted and shine light in jaded wavelength to see all that hopeful haze would obstruct. And in an age of years followed by that poorly reputable friend our perspective is so awfully eschewed, life without the razor is not a future commonly considered when the question dawns ‘What next?’

Those on this trail of, to outside eye, despairing fates entwined with coldness and mistrusting eyes that find their way to the woods less thick with grief and blessed by streams of illuminating sun lit light, will never so easily forget or frivolously reject the power they know lay in that blade once hailed so gifted by a friend and companion alike. And look in their back pocket, I bet that although stiff and slightly rusted a razor you will find with letters from an old friend should that enlightened path ever turn on a misstep to places of much less positively corrupted mind.

“Life without the razor to a depressive is as scary as life with that hallowed reaper of a blade to those positively blessed”