Chapter 3: Faded Memories

Vincent lived by himself and, like everyone who lives alone for long enough, he had become a solitary creature. Man, however, is not a lonely creature by nature. Loneliness is an acquired habit that one most learn to endure and live through.Because of this, as time went by he had developed ways and routines to make his loneliness a little bit more bearable. 

His diet consisted mainly of pasta. This was in some ways a legacy of the time he had spent living in Italy. Many years had passed since then but the habit of cooking and eating pasta on a daily basis had remained a part of his life. Habit was not the only justification for his Italian diet however. Pasta presented some advantages over other kinds of food: it was easy to make, fast to cook, didn't require a lot of planning, it was cheap and it actually tasted really good. 

That day's dish was penne al pesto, a classic among lazy people in Italy and the world. The recipe is simple: You boil the water and you throw in some penne. While the pasta cooks you wait, smoking a cigarette, reading a book or chatting with the person next to you. Unless you live alone of course. In that case there's no one to talk to while you wait. Most times Vincent preferred to just look at the pasta cooking in the boiling water, slowly, almost imperceptibly. He just starred at it for about ten minutes while it cooked. He actually liked it, it almost felt like he was meditating. After its done, you just drain the pasta and add the ready-made pesto sauce from a jar and mix it with the noodles until they're all green and slippery and smell really good and then you can add some olive oil and some pepper to make it taste and smell even better. You add some parmeggiano cheese at the end and that's it, you have a quick, tasty, Italian meal on your plate.

Vincent usually watched TV or read a novel while having lunch. Those were his favorite substitutes for human companionship. That day, however, he simply laid his plate on the table, along with a glass of red wine, added some more parmeggiano cheese to the mixture and started eating.

He was feeling particularly pensive and melancholic. As he ate his Italian food and heard the distant noises of cars and people coming from the street he couldn't help reminiscing about his life. "How did I end up like this?" he asked himself. Thirty years of age and zero hopes. There was a time when I had a mind filled with dreams and I believed, I truly did believe, that they would come true some day...

What happened to me? When did it all change? Was there really a time when things changed? A day, a month, a year? If there was I can't remember it. I can't even remember when my dreams turned into faded memories from the past...

I should have gotten a job. A monthly paycheck. A routine. A girl. Gotten married. I should have been like everyone else. Like my family wanted me to be...

Why did I even think I could become a writer? A successful writer of all things! How could I be so stupid? I can't even write three pages in a row anymore. Me, Vincent, a writer... Such a ridiculous thought. Such a gross mistake. Blasphemy!

In the old times it was different, sure... It hasn't even been that long, if I think about it. What, five, six years? It seems like forever though. It seems like that was another world. It seems I was a different person then, a much better person. That guy could have been a writer, not me. Not this bum I've become. Saying I'm a writer is an insult to those who really were writers. Hemingway, Kerouac, Orwell... They were writers alright. I'm just a joke. Except this isn't even funny. I'm just one more guy who wasted his life for nothing.

The glass of red wine was now empty so he filled it up again and drank it all up in one long sip. His plate was still almost full but he wasn't hungry anymore. He filled the glass once more and drank the wine even faster this time because he didn't want to think so much anymore...

Chapter 2: Nostalgia

It hadn't always been that way. Not so long ago, things were different. He used to write back then. Sometimes he would write in the morning, while having breakfast at a cafe. Sometimes he would write in the afternoon, often sitting outside under the sun. And sometimes he would write at night, all the way till dawn, sitting at his desk at home while the outside world slept. But that was a while ago and it seemed to him that an eternity had passed since then.

In reality, Vincent was still quite young even though he didn't feel that way most of the time. In fact, each year that passed made him feel not only older but also more certain that his life would end up being a great disappointment for both himself and those who had once expected great things from him. And all of this was either directly or indirectly related to his inability to write. It was tragically intertwined with those blank pages which seemed to grow even more immaculate at each passing year.

Vincent now felt as empty as those pages. He felt empty and old, even if he was not. What makes someone old is not how long one lives. It's a lack of dreams, or a lack of hope that those dreams might one day become real. His biggest dream had always been to become a writer and he believed it less every morning.

At thirty years old he was an empty vessel wondering the urban landscape he existed in. It was as if, at some point, somehow, he had lost his soul. His body was still there but inside that body there was only bitterness, regret and frustration. And nostalgia of course. Nostalgia had become his way of looking at the world.