A man in a tracksuit

The hours in front of the monitor doing things that don't interest me. 

Tasks for companies I don't know. Applications that don't have great applications. Company ads I can't find. Job ads I respond to. Response messages that don't arrive. An empty email inbox. Hours spent in meetings where the future of a button is decided. A button that will be removed at the next meeting. A button that will be replaced by another button. A button that will be deleted through another button.

Outside, it's raining. This morning, returning from the bus stop, I didn't meet anyone. My head wasn't hurting. Not too much. I was breathing quite well. Last night, a friend told me it's strange that I have pains. She's a psychiatrist. Okay. She says I should go... The cat meows. I open the kitchen door. The cat enters. The cat eats. Finishes. Sits in front of the door. I open it for him. He looks at me as if he doesn't understand why I opened it. I close it. He leaves, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I think about a friend for whom I wrote a haiku. I want her to understand that it's important for the groups she works with. She must have understood the opposite. I don't understand how it happened. Actually, I don't understand from her message if she understood the opposite. What I understand is that a carefully written haiku, little by little, got lost in a few messages. It became a lost message itself on Telegram.

A drop of color in a pool of water doesn't make any color. And there, somewhere. Dive in and look for it.

I think about a friend for whom I wrote two stories. She says she hasn't read them yet. I say no problem. I write about it. No problem. I don't think she'll read them. No problem. Outside, it's raining. I'm having lunch with almond milk. I have intestinal pain. I can't eat. I have to hurry. I have to read the responses from a manager of a company I collaborate with. I have to transcribe his responses into responses. His information into information. Information that will serve... I stop because I can't write quickly what they're for.

So, we are. Or rather, they are making an application. I have to gather information. This information needs to be organized, and we need to figure out what to do. No one tries to understand why. No one really knows why. We have to make an application. This is more or less clear. Everyone works. Today, a colleague didn't. His daughters aren't feeling well. So, he doesn't work. The others say they organize and work. I don't know what they do or if they understand. I know they must have understood where the things they need to do are. I have to prepare some.

Meanwhile, I drink almond milk and eat a cake that's getting better after a few days. I eat and think about a friend who lost his job. The useful points to understand the situation are quite simple: he doesn't have a job, his father suffered from alcoholism, he started smoking again, he doesn't have big ideas about his job, he drinks with friends, plays paddle.

Paddle is invading my life from every side. Male friends and other friends play paddle. I struggle to write its name thanks to the autocorrect. I write it to practice: paddle. It's like Risk. Another friend plays it, and once again, I'll hear about it. I'm surrounded. But I resist.

I write knowing that what I write doesn't interest anyone. Or rather, if you're reading, I've found someone who can reach this line. I don't know what it's part of, but wherever you are, keep going. Maybe it will be more interesting than where you are now. Know that I'm eating cocoa cereal. It might seem trivial, but since I can't eat gluten and other things, it's not easy. Finding cereals I can eat is a very complicated task.

I might have mentioned this somewhere. Meanwhile, I get up and warm up the toasted almond milk. The adjective "toasted" I hadn't mentioned before, but it's important. I hate toasted almonds and I bought a carton of liters of toasted almond milk by mistake. I didn't read the label carefully. Now I have about ten liters of toasted almond milk to drink.

A friend told me she can't stand her husband in a tracksuit. She told me this while I was wearing a tracksuit. These are always those awkward situations where you don't know if you should point it out. Also, because you don't know if she tolerates you as an exception. I, unlike her husband, have a tracksuit, but I'm tolerable. I, unlike her husband, have a tracksuit, but I'm more handsome or likable. Maybe I'm just not her husband. Yes, maybe that's it. Probably if her husband didn't wear tracksuits, she would still hate him. The tracksuit is just one of many reasons.

This is one of those moments when I understand why I write. I scatter things. When a couple of my friends read this, they tell me they don't understand anything. For them, nothing makes sense, but I understand things. There must be something between us that doesn't work. I also have a tracksuit. But they work remotely like me, so they also have a tracksuit. They'll have to find other reasons to hate me or hate their partners. Their partners also wear tracksuits, obviously. They're also remote.

My writing coach tells me to write about myself. Not to invent anything because that's how I reach others. So, I write about what I write. That is, I write to say what I do. Right now, I'm writing. When I write, I always do. So, I write about what I write. It's quite recursive.

After all, he benefits from the fact that I write and do it regularly. So, I have to write, otherwise he won't earn a living and he has a son. I feel responsible. For his son. His son, I think, eats several times a day. So, I write. It's a bit like a psychologist. If all of a psychologist's patients were cured overnight, the psychologist wouldn't have a living anymore. So, a psychologist's first interest is to keep their patients in an intermediate state, I think. Psychology might serve to keep people suspended for what I know. I went to a psychologist for years. Then I stopped going. I can't say I'm cured. But in psychology, you don't say "cured" anyway. I think if a psychologist read these lines, they would get angry. Not because I say "cured," but maybe because I'm saying something I shouldn't say. I don't know.

My writing coach tells me that if I write about my life, others will identify with it. I hope not. If they identified with these lines, I would be sorry for them. It's not a particularly exciting story. Or rather, I hope they're not in a tracksuit, especially if they're men. If my friend saw them, she wouldn't have a great idea of their lives.

Sometimes I think about writing these lines in the evening. But it's not possible. At ten in the evening, I sleep and wake up when my alarm tells me to in the morning. Lucky me, they say. Any person with children who isn't separated, awake after ten in the evening, I've realized they don't do it for fun. Nobody has fun after ten in the evening. The possibilities are: they suffer from insomnia, they need to sober up from secretly consumed alcohol, they need to recover from secretly taken drugs, they need to work secretly, or they're sleeping in front of Netflix. Netflix should provide blankets with their logo. The blanket should be included with the subscription. I think nobody has ever reached the end of an episode of any Netflix series.

I don't even think episodes have an end. I think that after a certain amount of time, episodes just stop and that's it. A bit like the Earth for flat earthers. If flat earthers connected their idea of the world with Netflix, they would change their theme. They would find a new big topic to talk about and proselytize without much effort.

I have a couple of friends whom I asked to tell me what they buy when they go shopping. In reality, they would have more exciting things to tell me. But they think not. And the shopping list is quite easy. You don't think about it, but when you find good meat and you're not a vegetarian, you get very excited. If you're a vegetarian, less so. But I wouldn't want to state the obvious. They could tell me about their dreams, the reason they do all the hard work they do, and what they've finally managed to achieve. But they don't see all this. From their perspective, they see their dull days passing by empty.

In fact, like me.

Now I've prepared the washing machine. Forty degrees. In a couple of hours, I need to hang the clothes. Now I set the timer.