"Perseverance: the masterpiece that the sweat of fools sketches," my grandfather would say as he swallowed the acidic humor of his own unsalted life. Me? I adopted the motto, but always with a sly grin and a wink at the absurdity of this noble farce.
You believe in this modern fairy tale, right? Where every whimper on the sidewalk can become a symphony in Carnegie Hall if you just... try hard enough. Oh, how beautiful. You could paint that on a canvas and sell it to a sentimentalist without a single flaw.
But look, outside of this bubble of hope whispered from generation to generation, here in the dirty and glamorous alley of showbiz, the rules are written with the lipstick of hypocrisy and the pen of convenience. "Oh, great muse of effort, guide me to stardom!", I prayed, watching people laugh until they fell off their chairs.
Then one day, between sips of that drink they call "those in the know, rise", a guy with a smile slicker than a 2000s boy band singer's hair told me: "You know what looks good in the picture? A singer on the cover of that fancy magazine. But you know what's not in the picture? The little way she had to give to get there." I know, I know, you'll say it's not like that. That talent wins in the end. Let's pretend we believe that.
Sarcasm was my secret weapon and, honestly? It amused me more than it should. Because deep down, behind those camera clicks and contract waves, I knew that as they say, "it's the hardship that really tests an artist." Yeah, love. And in hardship, most stars would just be another firefly blinking for attention.
I prefer to laugh in the back row, where the show is as clear as my drink, than to cry in the dressing room for something that, ultimately, would cost me much more than sweat. In the silence between the chords, that's where my sound lived—a place where even the most biting sarcasm is disarmed by the raw honesty of who I am. And if that's not enough for you, maybe I can at least draw out some ironically appreciative laughter, right?
Look, if they tell you life is a marathon, you can bet they forgot to mention the guys handing out trips along the route. An online novel writer here — and before you ask, no, it's not as glamorous as it sounds. My past? It's practically a catalog of creative failures so epic it would be a bestseller... if anyone could read it without dying of boredom.
For years, the most I could do was applaud others' successes with my left hand while holding a glass with my right — a glass half full. Because yes, I'm the party's ironic optimist. But then, in a somewhat blurred chapter of my own life, there was a twist: my latest novel exploded. Well, 'exploded' if you consider success being able to pay the bills without having to sell a kidney.
And yes, I could dress up my failures in covers of sarcasm and paint my insecurities with a patina of disdain — like when you cover a stain on the wall with a painting. But, I don't know, maybe there is something genuinely triumphant in this story of mine as an authorial zombie who, after trying and dying more times than a video game character, finds a trace of success. 'Success' is, of course, a relative term. I mean, last time I checked, J.K. Rowling wasn't counting coins for the bus fare.
My novel — my little piece of frustrated triumph — didn't change the world. But it changed mine, which is much smaller and infinitely easier to impress. It took me out of the 'nearly there' zone and firmly planted me in the land of 'phew, somehow I made it.' And I can tell you, with a certain stubborn pride, that I'd much rather live in this genuine little world than wander through the illusions I see everywhere else.
Anyway, here I am. Still writing, still sarcastic, and, surprisingly, still not entirely cynical. Who would have thought, huh? The life of a mediocre internet writer who managed to make the whole thing spin — even if it's on autopilot. So, let's toast to this: to the beauty of small victories, to the laughable glory of sustaining a normal life, and, of course, to the next page — because you never know when the tide will turn.
My computer and I, war companions, stare at each other once more. The screen glows, a portal to the end—the final arc of my novel, a protracted farewell. "It's strange," I say to no one, "it's like programming your own endgame." Not that there were many around to hear. Pathetic voids, writerly aspirations, my resume was a punchline-less joke. Maybe I should write until my fingers fuse to the keyboard.
Man, what an idea. To write until it's Game Over in real life, a beautiful personal epilogue, right? I imagine the final lines of my narrative merging with my last breath. Poetic or just pathetic? Probably, no one would be reading to find out—I hope my sarcasm is eternal. And this room… such a monumental mess that even my character would complain.
"God, or whoever is on duty at the fate administration," I declare, "help this poor writer to start and end the day with some dignity." The chair creaks in protest as I settle in, preparing to bring to life the end of a world while pondering my own.
Here we go, this is the big scene, Sam versus Lucifer, an epic clash between the hero and the personification of that eternal Monday we all hate. Look, I needed to sacrifice some pawns; after all, what kind of finale is it without some devastating loss? The loyal friend who always had the protagonist's back, or maybe the complicated love that made the battle worthwhile? Or do I go for the full shock and wipe the slate clean of the family? Hmm…
What a mess. Look what you've done, brain—now I sound like one of those old soap opera villains, one step away from rubbing his hands together and laughing malevolently. Woe betide me if Sam finds out I'm the puppeteer behind the curtains. He'd tear down the fourth wall and toss me off the cliff of morality for this.
But as long as I'm here, and he's there, I'm the boss, the omnipotent narrator. Alright then, old friend, grab your sword. It's time for the two of us to go to battle, even if neither of us, master or puppet, really knows where this will lead us.
Chapter finished, it would be an understatement to say that I'm exhausted. This melancholic hero of my creation just got the kind of news that would make anyone want to rewrite reality. Poor Sam, upset is an understatement, he's furious. And while he treads the path of hatred, I follow the path to bed, with darkness and silence being the only witnesses of this triumphant moment.
Seven thirty-six in the morning, a time no normal human being should be acquainted with on a Sunday. But for me, every day tastes like the weekend, and any concept of routine is as fluid as the thin lines of a draft.
I rise from the chair with more groans than a freshly operated hernia patient. Stumble, the last step of the "sloppy-writer" dance, leads me to the bed—my sweet hostess of procrastination and the refuge of the last conscious thoughts.
"Sleep, Sleeping Beauty, minus the dwarves, please," I mutter to the pillow, which seems as receptive as a deaf audience. My vision darkens, and for a moment I wonder: "Is it just the bat-cave, or has the whole world lost its luster?" Not that I'd expect an answer, especially when a weight settles on my chest.
Pain. A sharp stab that makes my heart miss a beat. "Ah, heart attack," I think with a calm that can only be attributed to total ignorance or to a fatigue so deep that even the fear of death seems like too arduous a task. My body, far from the physical form of Greek gods—or even personal trainers—definitively isn't ready for this.
Look at me, thinking I have the immunity of a protagonist, free from mundane nuisances like high cholesterol or that unwelcome visit from heart disease. "How ironic it would be," I reflect, already half-sliding into the unconscious abyss of sleep, "for the creator to end in his own narrative climax."
So, with a last breath that I hope is not truly the last, I let consciousness be devoured by darkness, with the hope that it is just drama staged by my exhausted brain and not the end of my own plot.
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==== STATUS UPDATE ====
Name: Dean Corleone
Rating: G
Attributes:
Strength: G
Agility: G
Vitality: G-
Intelligence: G
Mana Capacity: G
Luck: E
Charm: G-
Profession: Level 1 Mystic Swordsman