Day Three :: Fast Forward

And people say fasting’s for fools. They say, ‘What’s the point? Life’s too short. You might not eat for six days, then get hit by a bus and never be able to eat again – or walk - imagine how pissed off you’d be then.’ They say, ‘You’re depriving your body of essential nutrients. It’s not healthy. You’ll keel over!’ They say, ‘Fasting is gay.’

Well, let me tell you something: fasting is so not gay.

But apart from perkier pee-pee and less dense stools, the only thing I’m really noticing is that I feel fairly sharp, mentally. Like Mohammed Ali. Or Mr T. I have a sense of confidence, that I could achieve anything I put my mind to.

I actually think I’m a bit manic at the moment, and whether that’s due to no food or very little sleep I cannot say. I’m jumping from thing to thing a little more than usual. I have less concentration. I don’t feel particularly dynamic, but I’m definitely getting a lot done. My hands are freezing. But I’m sure that’s just the temperature. I worked late last night and finished the job, made the meeting this morning, turned down coffee and biscuits, impressed a guy in a suit and tie and even had a conversation about my availability for more work in the future. It went well, and I must admit, when I left the office in the sunlight, I felt good. I felt invincible. I felt like Bruce Wayne.

Not a gay.

My point is, I feel like I’m going forward. Whether I complete this fast or not, it’s already been good for me. It’s enabled me to focus myself. I feel like I’m gathering myself, readying myself for change. Both short and long-term. Things are going well and it’s up to me to consolidate. I need to take this bastard bull by the horns and throttle it into submission. Then eat it. But not yet. For now still the gathering, the gathering.

In the meantime, you should know, I hate Kafka. Or is it Herman Hesse I hate? To be honest, I’m going to go with my instinct and assume I pretty much despise the pair of them. And you know why? No sense of humour. And that’s no knee-jerk stereotype. That’s carefully wrought racism, arrived at by study. I read The Trial and I read Demian. Not so much as a titter.

But when I was searching stuff about fasting the other day I discovered that Kafka had written a short story called A Hunger Artist. It’s available online, here, and it’s only 4,133 words long.

I thought, well, it’s about fasting. It’s by Kafka. It’ll be hilarious. I could read it instead of cooking my now classic Cabbage and Pine Nut Pasta.

So I read it.



It was bollocks.