Diary Primeshots May 2026

The primers are gone. Not the ones in the gun—those I keep polished, a ritual for my sanity. I mean the ones in my head. The first shots.

I keep the .22 on the nightstand. Not for defense. For weight. Every morning, I eject the cylinder, spin it, and whisper the names of people I failed to save. The click of the hammer on an empty chamber is my confession. A primeshot with no powder. Just the sound of mercy not taken. diary primeshots

The pages are smudged with gun oil and sweat. Tomorrow, I'll load one live round. Not to fire. Just to know the difference between a primer that sparks and a heart that still can. The primers are gone

Tonight, I wrote: "I am the misfire that keeps walking." The first shots

The Cartridge Diary

They say a diary records what happened. Mine records what I almost let happen.