I was sitting alone thinking suicide. Just so tired of the nothing; the empty. I have no camaraderie. I recalled an elderly sentiment.

     “The mind can make a heaven of hell and a hell of heaven.”

I figured that must be true. Nietzche spoke of the state as a cold machine. That seems to be true too. The state conditions us to believe that life is a certain way. Then we are shocked to find life to be different when we see other cultures; murder other cultures. I went to the roof. The sun seemed to help; the writing as well. Of course, serenity never lasts. I started imagining falling to the ground with my book. The warmth felt nice. I could lose the wind though. I thought about the possibilities, but I was too afraid to ditch this wave I was struggling to ride.

I had built a fortress, but my walls had come crashing down upon my head. A shattered pottery was the remnant of my certainty. I snapped. I broke. The army ultimately failed me, but it was good while it lasted. That’s what I tell myself. At least they had provided me with a life to lead. But out here? As a nasty? I had too much time to think and I could never remain numb long enough. I couldn’t see myself holding a job. I was just biding my time. And how could I return to business as usual? I didn’t even know who I was.

I didn’t see a point in finishing the degree and while I talked of other options, I was too chicken-shit to commit, to any of it. Always too afraid. I’d probably finish the degree anyway. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t know what else to do. Well I did, but I was too afraid to take the risk. It was easier to fail silently. I missed my rifle.

I sat there on a park bench thinking about choking on a shotgun. I recall Ernest doing the same the state over. I wondered if it was this ailment that plagued those we call the greats. They never seemed very great—the bunch of misanthropic, chauvinistic, suicides. I wondered if they wrote to ease their passing as I did.

I had expected to have been buried by now, burnt away. Ashes in the wind. Something poetic like that. There were always the naysayers…

     “You don’t have it so bad…look at those pagans oceans away…now, they have something to complain about!”

     “Yea, yeah. I know. I just wish I could suffer alongside them. Perhaps then my external physicality might mirror the blistering internally.”

See, I desired to live the bad life of Harris. Not because it is by any means attractive, but perhaps then I might be appreciative. Maybe I might then have a chance at understanding, but I wasn’t bred for such a thing it would seem. Too chicken-shit anyways. Never satisfied. Always sabotaging the good things-the pleasant things. I never felt deserving.

I realized that I had been conditioned to be afraid of loneliness. While I was a lone wolf prior to service, on reentry I was fearful alone. Always with a buddy. I didn’t know what to do by myself. What was the protocol? So I rarely left the house unless I had a mission, a purpose. When I did venture out I lingered relatively near to my base of operation. I was still without my rifle.