I always wonder why famous people would put a gun to their head; an arrow to their hurt; probably hurl themselves off a cliff in the old millenia. I always wondered why someone with anything at their disposal would take their own life. Then I grew up and understood.

The loneliness of heart; the loneliness from their hearts hurts. Others; millions, hundreds; one may love you worth the millions but the loneliness of the heart makes it all irrelevant. The winter within the chest forms icy walls thicker than underground vaults; stronger than titanium. Impenetrable.

The winter heart beats to keep one alive not for one to live but to simply breath. The cold is painful; it cuts through and cuts off the breath. The desire to die grows stronger; to end the impenitent infliction of pain that seems to come naturally; involuntarily from you to the ones who want to and are loving you.

So the gun to head, think of all you can be in the next life. Pull the trigger and sigh the last of that you’ll ever draw inside. The pain is explosive; lasts but a moment; taken over by shock; by relief. The winter heart thaws with the flowing blood. Set free, it soars and flies. Free at last to be without sadness for not loving back; for not caring; for feeling lonely.