Sundays are the hardest

Swipe at the alarm. Silence the beep. There was a reason for it once. It’s a hard habit to break, this rising at a certain time, in time to do duty. This numb march through hours and minutes of getting up, getting ready, setting off, sitting and smiling and achingly making conversation that goes nowhere. There was a reason for it and a point to it once.

Find a new routine. Replace one fake brightness with another. Continue convincing that everything is fine. So British, so stiff, so ramrod straight and unkind. Let the brakes corrode, let the tyres crack from under-use. Let the day drift while filling it with distraction. A film, a meal, a visit to a gallery. Culture as a means of faking a life.

Take a pill or a drink. Take two. Button up tight. Bind your emotions, because now is the time to move on. To get back to normal. To pull yourself together.

And who says so? Who writes that rule repeatedly? Who drums it into our heads like a profanity?

Profane, the thought of letting it go. Profane, the stopping of a tongue, the cauterising of a wound, the prevention of a sorrow.

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