Functioning

I am what the CMHT call “functioning.” I wake up, get out of bed (!!!!!!), throw clothes on, jump on the bus, fall asleep on the Piccadilly line, wake up at Baron’s Court when the train goes overground and the phones of my fellow commuters start ringing, thank Baby Jesus that I haven’t woken up and found myself at Heathrow Terminal 5 (or even worse, on the train back to Cockfosters), clamber up the stairs with the other sardines/zombies/office workers, grab some form of caffeinated beverage, work, fag break, work, lunch break, work, fag break, work, make some excuse as to why I have to leave RIGHT NOW, run to the station, endure hideous commute, try and fail to concentrate on The Luminaries, jump on the bus and argue with a Bulgarian builder who won’t give up his seat for an old lady, go “home”, take meds, pass out.¬†Sometimes I manage to sleep, sometimes I do not. And then my alarm goes off. Functioning. Fucking functioning.

But I am not alive. I am dead. Alive? No. That will never be me, that will never be me. Fucking functioning.

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