Content warning: this piece contains themes of depression and suicidal ideation.

If you or someone you know is struggling, support is available:
Samaritans — 116 123 (UK, 24/7, free)
International crisis lines — http://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/

A story about survival.

— Paul

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The wind cuts across the field.
The old gatehouse shadowed against the dying sun.

Not a soul here.

On a Tuesday night in March.

The water looks dark.
Cold.
Deeper than I thought.
Deeper than I remember.

I look around the sides.
There is a path leading down.
Into the water.
The current.

All the way to the sea.

I watch the water for a while.
The wind rolls across, so it looks like it’s going the wrong way.

Debris and wood piled against the bridge.
Looks like the beavers have got ambitious.
Building skyscrapers.
I laugh.
Like something escaping.

Funny how we are drawn to water.

I’ve been thinking about walking down to the river all day.

All week.

Yesterday, I found an excuse not to come here.
Something drawing me here.

I followed a feeling.
It led me here.

But my brain, started quoting my writing back to me.

“I am of the earth, but not yet the earth.”

Ah, fuck. I wrote that?

I don’t remember.
Shit.

I did.

“Get up, you son of a bitch, get up, because I love you.”

Life is more than just me.
I am more than myself.
But just a man.

Flesh.
Blood.

A cold beer on a Saturday.

Well, did you mean them or not?
Are you out here playing?
Is this a fucking joke?

No.

This is who I am.
This is where I will live and die.

Here.

On this page.
In this town.
With these people.
With these thoughts.

The river.
The sky.
The moon sneaking on the stage.

I light up a smoke.
I run my hand over my face, the rough skin.

I sit.

In the yellow light of the streetlight.
A procession.
Slow.

A band, just accordion,
bass,
a guitar part snaking through.

Like the crowd that follows.
Carrying a coffin.
A woman crying.
Carrying a rose.

And a few that follow…
Just a few.
They nod as they pass.

The woman takes the rose.
Throws it into the water. 
She looks at me.
I can’t look her in the face.
Her eyes burn through me.

She turns.
I watch as they disappear into the woods.

I sit in the orange glow.
Streetlights.
I can hear the river run.
I hold up my hands.

What are these hands?
What are they for?

They work.
I work.
Work to do.

The wind cuts across the field.
The old gatehouse shadowed against the dying sun.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon