jack's life

I wouldn't say Jack is your average guy next door. In fact, if it were left to the so called psychologists to decide, he would be bludgeoned with lofty terms from those tomes of abstractions, into an oblivion worse than the one he is in at present, but I wouldn't say those "specialists" are normal either. Anyway, that's besides the point.
Adjectives being relative, his way of life, if it can be called a life at all, can best be termed as peculiar. The same day seems to be repeating itself again and again, as if tied to the needles of his old wristwatch, which has ceased to bring back any fond memories anymore. He opens his eyes. Had he been sleeping? How could it be? Was it just a dream? No way! He remembers what that correspondent had been talking about all this while, and is still there on his computer console, talking about future with fanaticism, the conclusive part of the documentary. Then what was all that stuff that seemed more like fantasy, that he could still picturize vividly? May be it is insomnia. He couldn't care less. Lights up a cig. It's still dark outside. When did he fall asleep? What day is it? He has no idea, and doesn't make an effort to find out. Looks at the tacky environment of his hostel room, with emptiness in his eyes, and a randomized thought process which has been haunting him for as long as he can remember. Gropes in the darkness for the bottle of some leftover whisky from the night before.....doesn't quite prefer bright lights, the table lamp being more than enough. Makes himself a peg in his favourite green chalice.....picks up the book he's read umpteen times, about some teenage college dropout.....used to make him pretty uncomfortable some years ago, but not now. Lights up another cig. One hour, two chapters, 3 pegs, 6 cigs and a few randomized thoughts later, he gets up, ready to go for a walk. Looks at his wristwatch. It's 3 at night. The streets are empty, just as he prefers. A mile or two of warped thinking, and he briskly starts back for his hostel room, decided on something. The room isn't as dark as he had left it.....empty bottles, cigarette packets, books, cobwebs ......and some wafer packets which he frisks out of hunger, in vain, now reveal themselves with smiting glee. He gets back on the computer, types some gibberish for an hour, and spends another lying on his back, looking at the ceiling, not sure of what he is thinking, or what he is supposed to. There's a knock on the door. He doesn't answer it. Doesn't feel like answering it. May be someone asking for cigs or a good samaritan waking him up for the morning class. He doesn't even shift his gaze. The phone rings, and although not being used to people calling him, he doesn't pick it up. In all probability it would be the credit card lady, or one of his previous blunders trying to give him a piece of it's non-existent mind. Anyway he didn't prefer talking anymore. Things weren't always like this. He could vaguely remember being punished almost everyday for being the most talkative brat at school. The thought brings a faint smile on his face, but it doesn't last. Something within him died along the line. In fact, sometimes days pass without him uttering a word. He has got used to being treated as an outcast, so much so, that he has neither pride nor sympathy for himself. He doesn't care, not anymore, and has become more or less stolid.
Dawn breaks, not that the time matters, but he freshens up, has breakfast, and returns to his den....downloads a few files, for the ever so stagnant time to pass.....followed by a long session of conflicts, real and unreal, wars, love, superficial as well as deep, the past, present and future, preferable and not quite so, followed by another session of random reading, mystics, saints, scientists, warriors, fiction, ...reality, and real sense of comfort that one might experience while being intermittently away from it. It's evening. He's skipped lunch as usual. Gets ready and heads for his usual hangout, a rather gloomy place, about a mile away, where they serve drinks. Another four hours just flow like a viscous fluid......elusive, yet so full of everything he has ever wished for. He drinks till he is inebriated enough to forget this day, only to live it again.

If there was only one such person, you people would be right to label him insane. But, unfortunately, that isn't the case.