Sunday, bloody Sunday

This is where it starts: Saturday night. My Le Mans; a 24 hour race to Sunday night where I drop off to sleep still alive.

Sunday is my Day of the Dead: I find Sundays impossible. From waking in the early hours,  drifting into and out of sleep again until light appears, it’s a ‘challenge’ shall we say.

If I fall asleep that Sunday night still alive I consider I’ve succeeded: if I’ve survived the day I have achieved Greatness, relatively speaking. I’m alive; still alive. Yippee..

I have been told by those who evidently know (sic) that it takes ‘courage’ to kill oneself. Haha.. that would be easy; so, so easy. I could do it now, at this very moment, without effort. Without much consciousness and without any courage, let alone personal strength. It would be easy.

No, the courage, the strength – the achievement – is in falling asleep Sunday night still alive, ready for work and another week of strength, courage and torment. Ah yes, the torment; utterly destroying deep black all-encompassing destruction of Self.

Every journey starts with a single footstep, and I am edging closer and closer to The End.

I will struggle through Sunday as ever. I will try to stay alive – and it is, as ever, only the fact that I have an 11 year old son that keeps me from falling off the edge. Except there’s no falling; it’s just a shuffling, millimetre by millimetre until the balance is lost and the edge is behind me.

This is where it starts: Saturday night. I’ll go to bed soon, fall asleep without effort but awaken within a few hours. Lie still, awake, deep in the cold depth of night. Sleep, waken, sleep, waken.. until Sunday morning pulls me from my bed. Then the challenge; then the hours – the many hours – through the long day, conscious of every moment that I have to hang on. That I must grasp the minutes and the hours of the long day until that day is gone.

Until I’ve fallen asleep, Sunday night, still alive. God willing. I’m not a believer, but I’ll take what I can.

Sunday is difficult. Fuck, Sunday is all but impossible. Beckett put it succinctly:

‘I can’t go on. I’ll go on.’

But hell, it hurts. It’s hard work, it’s bloody hard work. And I’m running out of strength.

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