Appraising my suicidal ideation and assumed methods.

1. Plough car into a suitable concrete wall somewhere on the M4:

Well, I’ve only just washed it, not to mention having T-Cut that scratch.

2. Take a shower after dark, drink copious amounts of alcohol, lie naked on lawn on a chilly night.

It’s a bit cold out there, and cosy indoors – what with the thick jumper and the central heating. And ‘Homeland’ is on in a minute.

3. Cut wrists.

That’s going to hurt, isn’t it? And there’ll be blood everywhere, I’ve only just started Spring cleaning.

4. Drink copious amounts of alcohol, swallow a few sleeping tablets. Jump off high building.

I don’t like heights and high buildings. They make me want to jump off. Oh…

5. Shoot myself.

Don’t have a suitable weapon. Nerf gun with foam ‘bullets’ borrowed from son probably not going to do the job to be honest, even at point-blank range.

6. Overdose of meds.

Couldn’t understand the document about quetiapine o.d. I found on Google – it was far too technical. Does it or doesn’t it?? Also, fluoxetine o.d. seems unlikely.

 

As Samuel Beckett put it: ‘I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

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Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday

 

 

 

Today, again, I’m not me. Today,

again, I see reflections of elsewhere;

else-one. Some other to be. Buzzing

with a particle pulse of happening,

sampling on another level, distant.

 

Withdrawn and imagining how the

smooth cut of a wet stem makes

the flower undone. I’m not here

today; something is, but not me.

I am that close to the atom, see?