Final It Is

When that realization comes right by, when it hits you in the face like a mountain's punch, embedded with the force of a million years, there's nothing you can do about it. Life is just rolling, - "it's not personal" - it will say to you, if you ask. Although it feels like it's personal, curiously, it is not. It's just what you get. It's just a probability that fell right in your lap. It hugged you like a child when it sees it's parents. Now it's part of you. You are that problem. You are that situation, until you sit right down with yourself and talk yourself through it. It's the only way. If you don't do that, and just ignore it, if you just wake up early in the morning, drink a coffee, watch the new, read the newspaper of whatever, go to work, come back to your house, invite someone over, and repeat that cycle over and over, you will never be free. And there's nothing more awful that being imprisoned inside of yourself. Believe me. Look at my face. Look at my eyes. I'm tired. And the most curious part is that I want to take a chance and solve my problem, but I don't know where to start. I don't know which problem is more relevant. More urgent. So I took a gun. I have it in my lap, right next to my problems. I got it just in case, in case that I get the opportunity to find my problem and shoot the fuck out of them. Just for that. I can't kill myself. I'm immortal. I'm Pomelo The Clown. I'm Pomelo. And I can't die. Dieless Pomelo. Unrottable. A fruit that does not perish. So is my suffering. It's immortal. It's endless. So, just sit your ass down and talk to yourself. Or even better: talk to your (or a) Psychologist.