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Personal Note:
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Poem
It felt heavier than he anticipated.
It was cold and clumsy in the sweaty palm of his hand.
He stared at the hard black object 
Somewhat amazed at how easily he was able to acquire it.

Unsure how to proceed,
He had not read any manuals to help in this endeavor,
He first held it with the barrel pressed against his temple.

Next, he put his lips around the long, narrow barrel.
He was surprised by the irony taste of the metal 
And what he assumed was gunpowder residue from previous use.
He laughed at himself for his repulsion with the germs he must have just consumed.

Lastly, he held the device at his throat,
Pointing up through his head.

He pointed the weapon forward and practiced squeezing the trigger
Prior to loading the magazine with the bullets from the open box on the table.
He wasn't sure why he put in six rounds 
When one was all that he would need.

The magazine slipped easily into the butt of the black Berretta.

He opted for the temple option, still spitting out the taste of death.

Sweat poured down his face and escaped from every pore of his tormented body.
He realized he had not left a note, but it was too late to remedy that oversight.

“Good-bye cruel world”, he whispered, or perhaps only thought.
His finger slowly pressed the trigger and his world went black.
.
.
As he started to blink his eyes in consciousness he laid motionless wondering why his spirit 
was still encased in his body.
How much time had passed?
Is time still relevant?

Taking inventory of his surroundings, he realized he was not in the afterlife.

He checked the revolver and saw that the bullet was never released into the chamber.
He must have passed out from the anticipation of putting an end to his pain.
Pain, that somehow, now, seemed more bearable.

Perhaps he was being too drastic.
Perhaps she was not worth this kind of an end.
Perhaps being so far in debt was not all that bad of a situation.
Perhaps he could find a purpose in life.

He pulled the lever that resulted in a cartridge being loaded into the chamber and 
thought, “Of course, Stupid.”

He ejected the bullet from the chamber;
Released the magazine from the butt of his gun;
Returned the bullets back into the box,
And wrapped everything up in a towel, before placing them in a shoebox and stashing it in 
the back of his closet.

His phone rang, unanswered, as he walked out the front door of his apartment, feeling like a 
new man with a second chance at life.
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