Last night I looked at the burger and fries I ordered for dinner and instead, for an instant, I saw myself pulling the trigger on a gun pointed at my head.
Gluttony. The instant gratification that draws away the pain. The surreptitious, temporal pleasure. But then the production of intemporal pain, the corrupted normalizing state. The gut distended to discomforting distraction, the shallow breath, the vast anchoring lethargy, the pending nausea, the acid bile in my throat waking me from sleep. The hole I crave. Pain creating the forced incapacitating withdrawal, a physical malaise inflicting me onto a chair or a couch for the night. A withdrawal more signicant than anything else corporeal, a manifested psychic paralysis, the refusal to accept the universe by creating a smaller, more enveloping universe that, for the time it takes to sluggishly digest, controls and envelopes me.
The bullet would be pain then quiet. The food instead fleeting quiet followed by ceaseless pain. Both their own kind of death.