Jack is exactly like you - he worries, he drinks, he struggles to pay his taxes, feels guilty about not seeing his family enough (especially his sister) shops at the local supermarket, listens to music, watches stuff on the TV and his computer and his phone, reads bits of the newspaper, goes to the cinema once in a blue moon, sometimes stops and stares at the stars on a late summer night wondering what it’s all about and never goes to church unless invited to a wedding or a christening.
He gets up in the morning, eats what he can, goes out, does stuff that isn’t very interesting (but helps pays the rent), stares at his phone, has lunch alone, goes back to do more uninteresting stuff, looks at the job ads on line, gets distracted by YouTube videos, thinks he could do better, and asks himself why he didn’t go to film school like his mother said he should, or become an influencer like everybody else seems to be.
Just an everyday, run of the mill, nothing exceptional kind of guy who breathes, burps, farts, itches, daydreams, hopes that things will get better (or at least not worse), never seems to have enough money or time to go on holiday, eat out at a restaurant, or buy a new car.
Except he’s also a writer. For hours on end he can sit and stare at the blank page long after other run of the mill folk would have given up.
Like this.
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