Woke up. Neck pain. Back pain. I wore yesterday’s clothes.
On my way to work, the movie “28 Days Later” came to my mind. Emptiness. Abandoned spaces. Few cars. It’s the end of the world, I thought. It’s the end of my world.
And now I’m here smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk, inhaling the fear of death that’s in the air. This Thursday feels like a Sunday, but I’m not praying. I’m thinking: Motherfuckers, I was looking forward to open sausages and open beer, but they just told me all restaurants are closed until further notice.
Corruption and incompetency. Impotence. The economic crisis. The COVID-19 pandemic. What’s next and what can we do? We can’t run — they’re shutting down the airports. We can’t hide — we’ll starve.
I can’t work. I can’t think.
And now in the office, in my rolling chair, I’m trying to get rid of this brain fog by scrolling down my Facebook newsfeed.
Moments ago, I called the convenience store and ordered wet wipes and hand sanitizers.
I’m alone in the office. There’s no one else here.
Last night, I reread Dostoevsky’s “White Nights.” Then I had dinner, and then some tea. I thought about the story, whether or not I should write a review about it… but I worked on a poem instead.
“White Nights” is one of Dostoevsky’s best short stories, along with “Bobok” and “The Dream of a Ridiculous Man.” It tells the story of a lonely man — a dreamer — who falls in love with a poor girl called Nastenka.
It has a good plot; the ending is brilliant. But what I like best is the part where the narrator describes what it means to be a ‘dreamer.’ I can relate to that.
The most beautiful part is right before the narrator begins talking about himself:
“[…] Come, make haste—begin—tell me your whole history.”
“My history!” I cried in alarm. “My history! But who has told you I have a history? I have no history….”
“Then how have you lived, if you have no history?” she interrupted, laughing.
“Absolutely without any history! I have lived, as they say, keeping myself to myself, that is, utterly alone—alone, entirely alone. Do you know what it means to be alone?”
(A dreamer may have stories to tell, but what he doesn’t have is history.)
(And a lazy person like me may have a lot of ideas, but what he doesn’t have is the will to write them down.)
I’ve been working on a love story since December, and I still need at least two weeks to finish it. I hope I complete it before March. It’s a short story, and it doesn’t exceed 7,000 words, so it should be doable even though I’ve been having a hard time developing it.
I reread the latest draft today — 11 pages, so far. The structure and the plot are there, but it still needs a lot of work. The sentences don’t flow the way I want them to, there’s something off with the tempo, and I need to add some descriptions here and there.
Everything needs time, and, I must admit, some stories are harder to write than others. This one is one example. The words don’t come, and I have to force them out. Maybe because it’s a love story. I don’t know.
I wanted to write a few pages tonight, but I’m feeling kind of lazy. I don’t think I’ll work on the story.