2 Minutes. Go!

The old man sat staring at the baby ducks, and it was like the rest of the world didn't exist. The man was locked in. His mouth hung open a little, but his eyes were his most arresting feature. He was looking at the ducklings like they were the face of God. There was some wonderment in the ducklings that I could not see, but I was intrigued. I lit a cigarette and watched the man watching the tiny fluffs of down that were following a big, tired-looking mama duck. 

Man staring at ducks. Me staring at man. (Just making sure you're with me.)

I wasn't smart enough to realize that there would also be someone staring at me. The man was interesting. The man fascinated by the man was...what? Also interesting? A danger? A threat? An invitation? People are free to make up their own minds, and my watcher did. He pulled a long rifle from a canvas bag, laid down on his stomach, and took careful aim. 

The sound of the shot scared the ducklings, and the ducklings terror threw the old man into a momentary panic. I was already falling. The bullet had already entered my chest and exited through a big hole in my back. I was well on my way to being dead. 

My watcher sighed. He smiled a small smile. And then he caught a sniper round through the back of his skull. We died so close to each other it was like we were brothers. And brothers watch brothers. As I died, I should have wondered who was watching the shooter of the shooter. But I had a lot on my mind. It takes concentration to die.

They say your whole life flashes before you. That's not true. Me, I died wondering what the fuck had happened. Same thing will probably happen to you. 

You'll be dead before you know what hit you.

2 Minutes. Go!

The taste is in the back of your throat, but you're used to it, and it doesn't alarm you. In fact, it is enticing. There is a fine line between sweetness and sickness. Sometimes straddling that line is easy, but most of the time it is like slack-lining. It requires impeccable balance and a locked inward gaze. 

There is terror in your eyes, but that look is always there. It is the look of an animal that has never known love. The eyes are quick and darting. You give off the energy of predator and prey. You are dual-sided. There are two wolves inside you...however you want to think about it, wrap your mind around the strange dichotomies. They keep life interesting. 

Climb to the top of the hill, grabbing bramble bushes for security. Stand at the top and let the wind wash you clean and carries your unclean bits away, to float over the city, adding to the cosmic pull. We are organic. You are organic. You are part of a bigger mess than you can ever comprehend. 

Throw the whole mess in the fire. Fire cleanses, too. Fire is the great equalizer. You learn to live with it, or you die. Being human is tricky business. Fire is just part of it. 

If you can't make it make sense, there are buildings downtown that no one could survive a fall from. You can go to one of those buildings. Or a bridge. There are many places you can say goodbye. You just need to pick one. 

Remember, it's permanent. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The finish line is an illusion. They told you it was there to keep you running long after you were tired. Long after you should have up and quit. 

Once you know it's sleight of hand, it's obvious, but you have to look at it just the right way. Most people don't. Most people insist it's still there, sometimes gold and shimmering, waiting to give them what they worked for. It's a comforting deceit, but it will always prove false.

If you stop running, people look at you like you're crazy, and it doesn't matter how logical it is to you. I was tired. This is fair. I was thirsty, hungry. This is also fair. I wanted to look at the way the light played on the sunflowers...this is when people start using labels. 

You must be a commie liberal. You must be a redneck reactionary. You must be a fat cat capitalist. You must be a government charity case. Hippie! You must always be the one to suffer two dimensionally, because two dimensions are all you can take in with a two-second, surface-level glance. 

Who's got your six when all you have is two's. Even without your propaganda glasses on... 

They're going to move the finish line until they are done with you, and then they will tell you that the finish line was only an idea. An ideal. Or it was there, but you didn't work hard enough. You didn't sacrifice enough. You were a bad cog. Bad cogs don't get rewards. 

As a consolation, there is one finish line that never changes, but most people don't recognize it when they get there. And by the time they are past it, they have ceased to recognize anything at all.