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It’s not a body; it’s just a vessel. So, fuck it, I hung it from a railroad trestle. That’s one of those decisions you can’t take back, but that was the whole point of it. Black like rain, and it was raining. So many things flit around my brain, and I’m always second-guessing. It’s distressing. I wanted to do one thing. No take-backs. Done. One thing that would be permanent and forever and for always. One.Thing is, the rope broke. And I got wet.
And then I decided to get my fishing gear out of the back of the truck. It was warm. I had no plans for dinner.
Fishing in a warm rain is a poor man’s luxury.
I wasn’t too much interested in the fishing part. I was more interested in the ‘standing in the stream thinking’ part. But then I felt a tug on my line that almost pulled the rod out my damn hands. And then muscle memory and adrenaline took over. And then I worked that fish for a good ten minutes.
And then the line snapped.
I knew it was coming, too. I knew the fish still had some fight in it, but I was overconfident. And then I was laughing my ass off. A grown man, all alone in the middle of nowhere, laughing because he failed to off himself and a fish on the same day in the exact same way.
I guess we both had some fight left in us.
Now, this isn’t meant to be taken literally. It’s a metaphor. The railroad trestle is your Mom’s homemade cookies. The rope? That was the first time you ever unhooked a bra on the first try. The suicide? That was life, man. It didn’t work. And if you haven’t thought about killing yourself at least once, then you got problems. Or not enough imagination. I don’t trust anyone who’s never thought: well, I could just end it.
The fish? The fish was a metaphor for fruit salad. And the fishing line? God. And the water? The water can be life or death. That’s what I like about water. It can soothe you on a hot day. You can float on it and fritter the hours away. Or you can hit it hard enough that it becomes cement.
And then you return to clay.