Living The Dream

It had stopped being fun a long time ago, I realized. Whatever ‘it’ was. It – the thing – the what-do-you-call-it thing. The thing that used to be fun. Supposedly. Then I remembered – ‘it’ was my life. Yes that was it. That thing I used to call ‘my life’! I remember that, I told myself, full to the brim of sour sardonic humour. Oh yes, it’s all coming back to me now. Of course. How could I have forgotten? There was this thing called ‘my life’ and the story was that it used to be fun, back in some dim and distant past. Way back when. In some hypothetical mythological era that didn’t really exist. Once upon a time, I began, in my best story-telling manner, there used to be this thing called – for the want of anything better or more accurate to call it – ‘my life’, and the myth was that it had been – way back in some murky conjectural period of prehistory – fun. Supposedly. So we are led to believe. So it is said. So some people have indicated. So I myself – in what was at best a vague and highly tangential fashion – had indicated. Apparently. Although I may of course may not have meant it. I might just have meant it ironically. It may just have been some sort of literary device. It might just have been a free and easy manner of speaking or conjecturing that was introduced at an early stage in the proceedings solely for the purpose of helping the narrative along. Because it was not doing so well the way things stood. Because it wasn’t really getting anywhere, as is so often the case. Because that’s simply the way of things. Things don’t always get off to a flying start, you know. More often than not there’s very little activity at all. Maybe none. The starting pistol is fired and nothing happens. Everyone just sits around, as they were, in chairs or on bar stools perhaps. Drinking pints of pale ale and nipping out to the smoking gazebo to enjoy an Embassy No 6. Or JPS Blue, my personal favourite. The match is on TV. Chelsea is playing Stoke Newington and Chelsea is very much on the back foot. Stoke are on the front foot, for most of the first half of the match, at any rate. I make my way slowly up to the bar, suddenly feeling very tired, and realize as I order another pint of brown and mild that it’s all just a dream. I can’t remember the last time I felt so tired. Probably it was in the last dream that I had had – the one before this. I have to be somewhere, I realize, but I don’t know where. I’m supposed to do something but I can’t remember what. It doesn’t matter anyway because it’s all just a waste of time really. I make up things that I have to do as a way of passing the time and then I procrastinate. I put off doing them because I don’t really want to do them. I put off doing them because I simply feel too tired. My life stopped being fun a long time ago, I realized…

 

 

 

 

 

 

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