This is a tribute to a man I cared deeply about, who chose to take his own life.

Written 28/03/2014

From the depths of the water the bubbles curl back up around her toes. She plunges down and catches one between her rugged fingers. Crushes it.

The sun’s shining high today and its rays enlighten the translucent submarine world; a world at peace with itself, never pausing to consider or hope. Simply content in its basic beliefs. That world never reminisces or remembers, does it – it looks forward, always, looks to that sun for guidance and to its dark interior for love.

Slowly but surely, the bubbles trickle back up to the surface. There’s only so much she can do to stop them, sadly. They hope too much. They dive up when she wants nothing more than to be held down. They bring with them pale emanations of an unforgivably better place.

Slowly but surely, she steps out of the water and gazes at the dozens of unseeing eyes behind her. Anticipatory, confused, they’re all waiting; they don’t understand what she’s doing, why she’s taking so long. They don’t understand how horrifying and punishing the sun feels today. How inadequate. Inappropriate.

Their glazed pupils suggest some kind of regret, some kind of thwarted hope. ‘Oh, he had so much potential’. Fuck that. That’s why they don’t see what she’s doing. The relevance of potential in death is something I’ve never understood.

Slowly but surely, she unscrews the lid. Gazes down at the grey emptiness, and one last time at the bubbles. So many of them, so many she can’t destroy no matter how hard she wishes. So much plastic happiness that’ll go on no matter what.

One last sigh. One last breath; oh, but if only it really were. If only they’d shared that last breath together.

The ashes conjoin themselves to the gas, beautiful grey plastic wraps. One last time they struggle to reach the surface before quickly realising they have no hope; if only the same could be said of her.

She turns around and marches slowly back up the rugged dunes. People everywhere, hands trying to grab at her, fingers clasping at her skin. They keep looking up at the sun as if it changes something. Keep saying this is the best day it could have been carried out. That he would have been happy.


If he would’ve been happy he wouldn’t have bothered to kill himself, would he.


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