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I'm a gun romantic. I always have been. Wherever I go, whoever I'm with and whatever I do, I have only one companion. No pets. No friends. It's my bodyguard, he's my bodyguard. He's my gun.
My father died because he was like me; gun in hand, he'd go wherever he wanted and didn't care what people though, if they argued with him, they argued with the barrel of a gun. It's a lonely place, looking up the barrel of a gun, few get to be there, but those who have will tell it's the most quiet, sickening place you could be. My father knew this place. Of course, now he can't tell me to stop. He can't tell me to be something different to him.
When he died, my life fell away from me, I wasn't really there, nothing was, everything was an abstract thought in my mind, nothing made sense, until I killed someone. The man who killed my father is now dead. He begged. He pleaded. He bled. He died. That was the day I knew, my place on this earth is not to wallow in my own pity, it's to act, and be who I am; a gun romantic.
Life, to me, is just the script from a Western; one man lives to kill, and if you get shot, that's the end of your part. I'm that one man, if I didn't choose my path to where I am now I'd be dead. Or even worse, alive with no reason.
I control this town, everything in it and everything that will come to be in it; what matters to me is that I am who I am, all I need is myself, and my gun. I don't dream anymore, lucid thoughts are trapped within my former self. I couldn't any different.
I'm different, I'm normal, and people notice. But they're just met with a gunshot that silences them, and my town, for one second. The sickening thud of a corpse hitting the ground is enough to make someone cry, but I don't. It's just them being weak, not seeing the real reason to live. I live to be me, not to avenge my father, not to make this town a better place, not to make my life better, I live to live, nothing more, nothing less. While I live I gain power, and those who fall before me, blood-drenched and decaying, they become weak, like I used to. Death isn't something to fear, it's something to avoid while you're trying to who you are, false sentiments that once littered my mind are now gone. I feel for only myself, and my gun.
While others fret when they are face to face with death, I laugh and return the favour, but I don't miss. I've seen tears, people remembering their families before they die, tears of happy days, memories, special moments in their lives. I have overcome this, death would be the greatest gift for them if they are stuck to feelings and can't let go, the only conscience I listen to is the one with a barrel.
I'm a gun romantic; a loud gunshot, a smoking barrel and a dead person is the only thing I live for.
So, where's the twist in this story? There isn't one, simple as that. Actually, did a mention I was dead...
Thanks for reading
RiCkOsS
My father died because he was like me; gun in hand, he'd go wherever he wanted and didn't care what people though, if they argued with him, they argued with the barrel of a gun. It's a lonely place, looking up the barrel of a gun, few get to be there, but those who have will tell it's the most quiet, sickening place you could be. My father knew this place. Of course, now he can't tell me to stop. He can't tell me to be something different to him.
When he died, my life fell away from me, I wasn't really there, nothing was, everything was an abstract thought in my mind, nothing made sense, until I killed someone. The man who killed my father is now dead. He begged. He pleaded. He bled. He died. That was the day I knew, my place on this earth is not to wallow in my own pity, it's to act, and be who I am; a gun romantic.
Life, to me, is just the script from a Western; one man lives to kill, and if you get shot, that's the end of your part. I'm that one man, if I didn't choose my path to where I am now I'd be dead. Or even worse, alive with no reason.
I control this town, everything in it and everything that will come to be in it; what matters to me is that I am who I am, all I need is myself, and my gun. I don't dream anymore, lucid thoughts are trapped within my former self. I couldn't any different.
I'm different, I'm normal, and people notice. But they're just met with a gunshot that silences them, and my town, for one second. The sickening thud of a corpse hitting the ground is enough to make someone cry, but I don't. It's just them being weak, not seeing the real reason to live. I live to be me, not to avenge my father, not to make this town a better place, not to make my life better, I live to live, nothing more, nothing less. While I live I gain power, and those who fall before me, blood-drenched and decaying, they become weak, like I used to. Death isn't something to fear, it's something to avoid while you're trying to who you are, false sentiments that once littered my mind are now gone. I feel for only myself, and my gun.
While others fret when they are face to face with death, I laugh and return the favour, but I don't miss. I've seen tears, people remembering their families before they die, tears of happy days, memories, special moments in their lives. I have overcome this, death would be the greatest gift for them if they are stuck to feelings and can't let go, the only conscience I listen to is the one with a barrel.
I'm a gun romantic; a loud gunshot, a smoking barrel and a dead person is the only thing I live for.
So, where's the twist in this story? There isn't one, simple as that. Actually, did a mention I was dead...
Thanks for reading
RiCkOsS
Yup, that was cool.
Wow, cheers! Didn't think it was that good :-)
I was going to say.. the first couple of paragraghs are brilliant! Really good. Then I read the rest and.. well, it was brilliant too!
I loved the way you expressed those words..
Mm.
I loved the way you expressed those words..
Mm.
"Courage when faced with danger says: welcome."
Cool post.
Cool post.
Ha, awesome. Great stuff Rick!
I'm a gun romantic. I always have been. Wherever I go, whoever I'm with and whatever I do, I have only one companion. No pets. No friends. It's my bodyguard, he's my bodyguard. He's my gun.
My father died because he was like me; gun in hand, he'd go wherever he wanted and didn't care what people though, if they argued with him, they argued with the barrel of a gun. It's a lonely place, looking up the barrel of a gun, few get to be there, but those who have will tell it's the most quiet, sickening place you could be. My father knew this place. Of course, now he can't tell me to stop. He can't tell me to be something different to him.
When he died, my life fell away from me, I wasn't really there, nothing was, everything was an abstract thought in my mind, nothing made sense, until I killed someone. The man who killed my father is now dead. He begged. He pleaded. He bled. He died. That was the day I knew, my place on this earth is not to wallow in my own pity, it's to act, and be who I am; a gun romantic.
Life, to me, is just the script from a Western; one man lives to kill, and if you get shot, that's the end of your part. I'm that one man, if I didn't choose my path to where I am now I'd be dead. Or even worse, alive with no reason.
I control this town, everything in it and everything that will come to be in it; what matters to me is that I am who I am, all I need is myself, and my gun. I don't dream anymore, lucid thoughts are trapped within my former self. I couldn't any different.
I'm different, I'm normal, and people notice. But they're just met with a gunshot that silences them, and my town, for one second. The sickening thud of a corpse hitting the ground is enough to make someone cry, but I don't. It's just them being weak, not seeing the real reason to live. I live to be me, not to avenge my father, not to make this town a better place, not to make my life better, I live to live, nothing more, nothing less. While I live I gain power, and those who fall before me, blood-drenched and decaying, they become weak, like I used to. Death isn't something to fear, it's something to avoid while you're trying to who you are, false sentiments that once littered my mind are now gone. I feel for only myself, and my gun.
While others fret when they are face to face with death, I laugh and return the favour, but I don't miss. I've seen tears, people remembering their families before they die, tears of happy days, memories, special moments in their lives. I have overcome this, death would be the greatest gift for them if they are stuck to feelings and can't let go, the only conscience I listen to is the one with a barrel.
I'm a gun romantic; a loud gunshot, a smoking barrel and a dead person is the only thing I live for.
So, where's the twist in this story? There isn't one, simple as that. Actually, did a mention I was dead...
Thanks for reading
RiCkOsS
My father died because he was like me; gun in hand, he'd go wherever he wanted and didn't care what people though, if they argued with him, they argued with the barrel of a gun. It's a lonely place, looking up the barrel of a gun, few get to be there, but those who have will tell it's the most quiet, sickening place you could be. My father knew this place. Of course, now he can't tell me to stop. He can't tell me to be something different to him.
When he died, my life fell away from me, I wasn't really there, nothing was, everything was an abstract thought in my mind, nothing made sense, until I killed someone. The man who killed my father is now dead. He begged. He pleaded. He bled. He died. That was the day I knew, my place on this earth is not to wallow in my own pity, it's to act, and be who I am; a gun romantic.
Life, to me, is just the script from a Western; one man lives to kill, and if you get shot, that's the end of your part. I'm that one man, if I didn't choose my path to where I am now I'd be dead. Or even worse, alive with no reason.
I control this town, everything in it and everything that will come to be in it; what matters to me is that I am who I am, all I need is myself, and my gun. I don't dream anymore, lucid thoughts are trapped within my former self. I couldn't any different.
I'm different, I'm normal, and people notice. But they're just met with a gunshot that silences them, and my town, for one second. The sickening thud of a corpse hitting the ground is enough to make someone cry, but I don't. It's just them being weak, not seeing the real reason to live. I live to be me, not to avenge my father, not to make this town a better place, not to make my life better, I live to live, nothing more, nothing less. While I live I gain power, and those who fall before me, blood-drenched and decaying, they become weak, like I used to. Death isn't something to fear, it's something to avoid while you're trying to who you are, false sentiments that once littered my mind are now gone. I feel for only myself, and my gun.
While others fret when they are face to face with death, I laugh and return the favour, but I don't miss. I've seen tears, people remembering their families before they die, tears of happy days, memories, special moments in their lives. I have overcome this, death would be the greatest gift for them if they are stuck to feelings and can't let go, the only conscience I listen to is the one with a barrel.
I'm a gun romantic; a loud gunshot, a smoking barrel and a dead person is the only thing I live for.
So, where's the twist in this story? There isn't one, simple as that. Actually, did a mention I was dead...
Thanks for reading
RiCkOsS