Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The feeling of slipping away wasn’t without its charms. Kevin didn’t care for the path he’d taken to now. He felt the forks he’d decided upon were the easy turns of a lazy fool guided less by his mind than by his heart. As if that throbbing tornado at the center of his chest could think. It merely churned and swooned and worked him into a self-destructive frenzy, each love he pursued more painful than the last. And yet his winds of ardor whipped and whistled for high bliss, uprooting every foundation he’d built until there was nothing left but debris surrounding him. And so when the pain set in, when that heart was lanced by the lightening of his years of abuse, Kevin didn’t hold on. He wouldn’t quit the alcohol, the cigarettes or the drugs, but he could quit life. All he had to do was stop listening to all of the sound and hurry that kicked up around him. Just ignore the shrieking pain and let the dark roll over him; the nausea and cold. It felt like the low after too much coke, without the burn in his nose and throat; a rapid decline like dropping off a bridge into somewhere impossibly far below. Just falling and falling into the black, letting gravity define him, pulling him from the churning skies of his yearning and sending him into an unknown stillness that he prayed would meet him with the open arms he always sought but never found. Kevin was letting go because this too was easy, and for once he didn’t crucify himself for making the wrong choice. No, Kevin didn’t do anything at all.


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