Another Wasted Day

Once upon a time a few hundred years back, there was a city. In that city, one lovely day, there was a fire in a house. An old man came running to 13-year-old Jojo and told him that a house in the city was on fire. Jojo finished his cigarette and said to the old man that he didn’t care because the fire was not in his house. A few hours later the old man once again came to Jojo and told him that his neighbor’s house was on fire. Jojo finished his grilled fish and beer and said to the old man that he didn’t care because the fire was not in his house. The old man came again after a few hours and saw that Jojo was throwing water on his rocking chair that was burning. The old man asked what happened. “The fire finally reached the bottom of my chair and made me feel warm below my bum”, said Jojo. The whole city was in ashes but Jojo somehow managed to save his chair and bum. And without caring an ounce about the world, he lived just like he lived before, in boredom!

The above story is a modern version of procrastination. Till the time there is an imposed deadline, there seems no fucking point to get work done. If somebody could be hired for washing my butt after I shat and holding my dick while I peed, how great would it be? Sadly, I don’t have the money to hire such a human being just in case he or she exists who after reading this un-advertised job vacancy gratefully pings me. In my room, there is a bulletin board on which I have my drawings pinned. Also on that board were three quotations until yesterday. One of them was by Muhammad Ali. It said, “The obstacle is not the mountain in front of our eyes, often it is the pebble in our shoe”. This one, in particular, seemed a little motivating. So I tore it and also tore the other two and threw all three of the motivating quotes in the dustbin. There should not be anything kept in the vicinity that seems to get you working other than the motivation for jerking off to interracial porn, sleeping away to millionaire dreams and eating till oblivion.

I thought of doing something good like reading a book but then I began to feel tired. There is only one thing that is harder than reading a book. That is sitting down to read it. So I gave up both of them and what you see in front of your eyes is the result that I produced when I sat down to write. To write is to not pour fancy words in a rhythm as some people on social media do and call it poetry. I have no idea what so ever about why people write. Some people say that they write because it is how they express their feelings. Only if I could express my feelings on paper, they would turn out something like this:-

No worries. I write to entertain myself the way I want to be entertained. One crappy piece of art at a time, I am not making any change in the world around me or in my life. Passing time is a skill and to be really really efficient at it you have to have a sense of direction-lessness and you gotta be the master of your own empire of nothingness.

A wise man before dying said that the best part of his life was lived when he was procrastinating. That wise man is the future me who is old and on his death carpet. I may not be able to afford a deathbed, so death carpet. Too much for today’s dose of shitty literature. Over and out.

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