Day 8
Quite riduclously, I have decided to not force myself in any endeavour. It’s like an olympic athelete practising only when he ‘feels’ that the time is right. I mean there’s no simpler way of fuc&^^g up your work than overthinking about it and doing nothing in reality.
So, I wrote the first chapter of a brilliant novel. I have several such chapters written about. Maybe I should write a book with only the first chapters in them. It would be called the “the story of…” . It would win the Pulitzer and absolutely no one would get it. They’d call me to the award ceremony to explain the book and I’d show up drunk and naked. They’d call me an artist and I’d get to do everything and not be condemned for it, ever.
Anyhow, after that, I went for a coffee and a discussion with my old friend. he turned up with his old relative, who had no one else to talk to. The meeting was a damp squib. No one could actually say what they wanted to and we stared at each other, uncomfortably, then read uncomfortably and then just sat. His relative, toyed with his keys and helmet for quarter of an hour till we decided to pardon him and ended the meet.
This time no one took pity on me. I can walk without a limp now, so it’s no use exaggerating my movements. I only wish that my footballing fans weren’t so sad. I must tell them, that I’ve passed my torch to Neymar.
ps: He didn’t take it, but does it matter?
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