Novel chapters 1-3 draft

As I look into those piercing light blue eyes, the light exposing their beauty, I feel them penetrating me as if they were looking into the depths of my soul. As if they could see the real me underneath the facade. My eyes gaze back intently, unable to deter from hers. I wonder to myself, ‘can she really see me for what I’m worth. Can she see the multicoloured shade’s of my soul. My conquests and my defeats. My emptiness …’

Chapter 1: Hope.

In the morning, it was morning and I was still alive.

Hope. That’s what I believe the meaning of life is. Not just for me, but for all of us. Hope. It’s what keeps the world spinning. It’s what keeps us sane. It’s what keeps me sane. It’s what gets us through each year, each month, each hour, each minute and each second. Hope. When I awoke this morning, I was hoping that it would be a good day (and this does not imply that I had a bad day). Hope.

My name is Isaac Asimov. I’m 28 years old. Divorced. No kids. Womanless. Not that that matters. There is an array of possibilities out there for me. I am entirely content with my life. I am precisely where I want to be. I think.

As I lay on my bed awaiting the second ring of my alarm clock, I decide that I am going to write a novel. Or a collection of short stories. Something along those lines. And it will be about hope.

Chapter 2: Run.

Beep beep beep. The sound of my alarm clock echoes in my ears. Beep beep beep. I don’t turn it off. I let it ring out until it is finished. I turn over and look at the time: 6:32am. Time for the morning run. I like to look after the physical aspects of me. It’s only fair that it should stay up to date with my advanced state of mental being.

Morning runs are always fascinating. They provide me with some piece of mind. Getting outside my box which I call home. Being in there feels so self restricting at times. I have to let my mind wonder into meadows of the world by being outside. Running allow me to do this.

I like evaluating myself. I have no deceptions about who I am. But I am also aware of how complex the human mind is, and being human, how complex my mind is. We are all a bunch of hypocrites and the way of the mind is to be very flexible. Our multifaceted minds evince this to me daily. Such indecisiveness envelopes our being. Quite Extraordinary.

So on this particular morning run, I am dissecting my mind and analysing my thoughts on a woman. I, like many of the male species, crave the company of the opposite sex. When running, women that have wronged me in the past give me motivation. When running, women who have yet to wrong me give me motivation. Running is the promise of good physicality. That after my exertions I will be sculptured and pretty like in the movies. I run to spite women; ‘keep going mate. That bitch will always regret leaving you after she sees this bod …’. Chants like this keep me running consistently. Underlying superficiality, but that is the way of the world.

Alicia Brown. The last women I left my heart to. I don’t want to even talk about her. To the next women. Just run run run Isaac and she may be around the corner. It is quite a pathetic hope, but nonetheless it is a plausible one… Nope, she’s not there.

The man that ran and ran. He ran to glory. He never gave up and his determined hope for something more promising around the corner led him to the Olympics. He trained and trained and won gold. Afterwards, overjoyed and exhausted he was about to give up his running. But in the Olympic celebrations he found what he was looking for. A woman.

Hmm. I think that my novel will be made up of inspirational parables like this one. I hope I remember this for when I get home.

Chapter 3: Gazebo.

The run infused a sense of thoughtfulness that enveloped the rest of my day. As I sat under my ‘in-progress’ gazebo, I pondered the world. The half built structure almost symbolised my life. Always striving to do more, sometimes perhaps unnecessarily. The backyard looked great without the addition of a gazebo. But sometimes I embark upon projects on a whim. Why not right?

People love this and hate this about me. Sarah, a recent lover, was one of these people:

‘You just don’t know when to leave well enough alone.’

‘When is anything ever well enough? If life ever got to a stage where it was well enough then what would we do with ourselves?’

‘These things you do in your life, not just around the house, are the habits of an unsettled person. You don’t know how to relax. You’ll start a project and then when it has failed you will put things back to how they originally were. You don’t know how to keep still. You are infuriatingly trying to do too much. I love that about you, but I can’t keep up’.

Reminiscing about Sarah brings back fond memories. We had good times together. And she was right. I’m always under the impression that there is something better our there. We should strive for the best and not just be content. Admittedly, I do try too hard sometimes. However, a person in no hurry gets no where fast.

It’s quite humorous contemplating this subject matter. Right now I am just relaxing. Merely pondering the world and merely observing one of my ‘foolish’ projects. I think Sarah would be proud. A few drops from the heaven’s interrupts my thoughts. This surprises me as the weather is ideally summer. Beautiful heat and lots of sunshine. These clouds have crept out from no where and have scarred the blue skies above.

I sit and I listen. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. This is some heavy rain. Disjointed and fat. The sound and smell of it are intoxicating. Then suddenly the sky erupts and its as if a hurricane has hit. Rain pours down. However, the sun is still shining tremendously. It feels comfortably surreal. The might of nature and the world never ceases to fascinate me. From a strong gust of wind which can undo the great works of man to mere sights like this; rain on a sunny day. Makes you really think that there is a God up there toying with us.

My thoughts go back to Sarah and my preoccupied persona. Aristophanes myth of Sisyphus is brought to mind. The story evinces a man who continually struggles to push a boulder up this hill. But this hill is on a crescent. So once he reaches the top, the boulder falls back down again on the other side. Yet this is not a depressing story. Although Sisyphus’ struggles may seem pointless and absurd, he exclaims:

‘The struggle itself to get the boulder up the hill is enough for me to be content. Even if it will just fall right back down again.

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