CHAPTER ONE
Everyone hates those people who think they can still do things they dreamt of doing in their early years. I don’t, but everyone seems to hates me. Nobody wants to grow up to become some bloody accountant in some firm. That’s boring. Still a lot of people end up there. I on the other hand rather be unemployed than do that. That being the reason is why I on this glorious morning, when everybody’s off to work trying to look busy, is sitting here on this crap looking café trying to feel some inspiration in my veins so that I can put something on paper.
I am failing. I decide to take a break from trying and look around the café. The morning rush hour has just passed and it’s almost deserted. A teen boy is wiping a table with a piece of cloth. He works here. I’ve been looking at him for a long time now and he surely has noticed. He too eyes at me after a few moments to see if I’m still staring at him. There, he did it again. He’s probably feeling awkward about it but I don’t care. I quit staring after a few minutes and try again concentrating in my work.
I’m not actually unemployed to say, I’m freelance. What do I do? I write. That’s what I’ve always been doing since my teen years, so I’m very comfortable in it. There’s also the fact that I can’t do anything else. I’m now working on a project which is a novel based on a friend. The plot revolves around a gay middle aged guy who falls in love with a troll. Trust me, I’m not joking around. Fantasy is in this days and homosexuality is a major factor these days and both these elements are in my book. So there’s a fat chance it’s going be in the bestsellers list. But the hard part is getting me to get it done in paper.
I get up from my seat; with the tea-mug on my hand (I don’t drink coffee) and went towards the door. I take a deep breath and look outside. Great. Now I’ll borrow more time from myself to get this work done. This time the excuse being a temporary case of writer’s block. The part of me which asking for time is embarrassed now and the part of me that is giving it is disappointed. I’ve done it too many times to know that it will be a while since the book is finished.
I go back to my table and sit down. I notice that the café is empty now except for me and the owner who’s in his cubicle probably counting something. The door moves open and I see somebody coming in. He’s probably my age. Looks quite like me too.
FUCK, It is me .
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