"Write your fucking book, you twat."
That's what I just thought to myself.
"Oh, you feel like shit, do you? Well, isn't that the idea? Shouldn't you be documenting how it feels to be you right now?"
Can't I just go to sleep?
"No you can't. You really can't, and you know it. The last semblance of a routine you had was abandoned weeks ago. Your internal clock, like much of the rest of your body, is completely fucked up and, apart from anything else, you're in pain. You'll sleep when it happens, not when you feel like it. So don't just lie there in the dark, hurting, and wondering about death, and about what life is going to be like (for everyone else) after your death, and remembering and replaying and re-examining... just write your fucking book. Why let those thoughts trickle away and go to waste? Why not put them on the page?"
Alright. Chill out.
"And see if you can write more than one page this time, you slacker."
I'm very much the 'could try harder' type and I know it. It's an especially hard type to break out of when you've proved, as convincingly as I have, that you're also the 'doesn't need to try harder' type. At least I am where money's concerned, and money's how we measure need, right? It is indeed, but it seems so, so unimportant right now. What is important then? I guess I'm maybe writing this because I hope it'll help me to find out.
"You soppy little sod."
YOU ARE READING
Man Of Few Words
General FictionOne man's painful yet funny search for meaning in a life about to be cut short. Cancer has made David Alexander's whole existence suddenly seem worthless. But is it?
