I stood up, stretching my arms a bit from the chair. The weather was quite warm for December. I had never been a big fan of Christmas or any lingering taste of festivity.
I believed in self development. Well, the thought was quite funny because I never had any self development for the past decade. Imagine buying self help books in the name of development and being the same person even after reading for hundred times.
I stood up, stretching my arms from the chair, letting the muscles in my back loosen after too long sitting in one place. The warmth of the December air hit my skin in a strange way. It wasn't the kind of warmth that promised a cozy holiday spirit or the comfort of shared family moments. No, this warmth felt like a quiet rebellion against the season, a subtle reminder that everything was off-kilter—unseasonable, unnerving. I wasn't a fan of Christmas or any lingering taste of festivity. It always felt hollow, like a performance everyone put on to pretend they weren't as lost as I was. The festivities were a smoke screen, masking the emptiness that lingered just beneath the surface.
I thought about self-development for a moment. My eyes fixated to my book case, which mostly contained 'Self-help' books. The idea made me laugh bitterly. There I was, pushing forty and still clinging to a concept that never seemed to stick. I had invested countless hours into "improving" myself over the years, but each attempt felt like I was trying to climb a mountain, only to end up back at the bottom every time. A decade spent with self-help books as my only companions. And for all the promises those books made, I had only become more adept at fooling myself into thinking change was just one page away. But I hadn't changed. Not really. If anything, I'd only grown more disillusioned.
"Self-development," I muttered to myself, mocking the words. I could hear the irony in my own voice. It was almost pathetic when I thought about it. The endless parade of books that sat on my shelves, each one a well-meaning attempt to fix something I wasn't even sure needed fixing. I had become a collector of promises, each one more elaborate than the last. But when it came time to apply the advice? I was always left standing in the same spot, fumbling around in the dark.
The shelves were full of them. A dozen self-help books, each one more desperate than the last. "How to Control Smoking," "Get Rid of Smoking Addiction," "How to Stop Procrastinating," "100 Ways to Get a Woman." There they were, stacked neatly on the shelves like obedient soldiers waiting for orders. But no matter how many times I read through them, no matter how many times I tried to make sense of their words, I never seemed to get any better. The books wore out before I did, their pages curling from the constant turning, their covers growing dog-eared with the weight of too many failed attempts.
To add more humor, in my teenage age years, I even read a book from the school library once—"How to Pass every Exam." I followed all its tips, took notes, and felt prepared. Then came the exam… and I failed. If self-help books really worked, why the hell did I fail? I had memorized the strategies, managed my time—everything the book said. Yet, there I was, a living example of how not to pass. Maybe the real lesson was that some things couldn't be solved with a 200-page manual.
And the smoking? Well, that was a given. I would light another cigarette, take a slow drag, and stare at the smoke curling up toward the ceiling. The books hadn't stopped me. They never did. I had always read those pages, hoping for some magical shift that would change my habits, change my life. But all they really did was make me feel like a fool. I couldn't control my smoking because I didn't really want to. I couldn't follow through on any of the promises in those books because, deep down, I didn't believe I could be fixed.
Then there were the books on relationships. "100 Ways to Get a Woman." The title always made me roll my eyes. I couldn't even count the number of times I'd tried to follow those tips, only to end up in the same place: alone. It wasn't that I didn't try. I did. I'd convinced myself that the right words, the right moves, the right timing would somehow bring the connection I longed for. But it never happened. Women came and went, but nothing ever stuck. The connections were fleeting, and each failed attempt just piled more weight on my chest, reminding me that no matter how many books I read, I was never going to find what I was looking for.
I leaned against the window, looking out at the city below. The lights glowed in the distance, but they didn't feel as warm as they should. The more I watched, the more the chaos of the streets mirrored the mess inside my head. It was a sea of people, rushing, trying, hoping for something—anything—that would make them feel like they mattered. But they were all just like me, chasing after something that would always remain out of reach.
"Unlucky," I muttered, as if the word could explain everything. But I knew it wasn't luck. It wasn't the cards I was dealt. It was me. It was always me. And maybe that's the joke. The real development wasn't in those damn books. The real growth came from understanding that some things can't be fixed, and maybe the only way forward was to accept that.
I lit another cigarette, watching the smoke curl and twist in the dim light, just like my thoughts. I knew it wouldn't change anything. It never did. But for a moment, I could pretend it did. Pretend that maybe this time, this moment, was all I needed to figure things out. But deep down, I knew better. It wasn't going to be the last cigarette. It wasn't going to be the last book. And it wasn't going to be the last time I told myself I'd try again tomorrow.
*****
I took a hot shower, letting the steam clear my head as I shampooed my hair. Despite suffering from chronic hair fall, I always managed to have a decent head of hair. It wasn't thick, but it grew back on its own, a small victory in the face of genetics. My dad's genes were strong—he still had a full head of hair when I last saw him, even at fifty. I guess I had that going for me.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. My beard had barely grown, just enough to make me look like I had a porcupine attached to my face. Too short, too prickly—unruly and awkward. I couldn't be bothered to let it grow out, so I shaved it. Why deal with the discomfort when I could just take care of it in a couple of minutes?
Once the shaving was done, I rinsed my face with cold water, staring at my reflection one last time. The same tired eyes stared back, but I had learned not to expect anything different. At least my hair looked decent for now. Small victories, right? Maybe that was the secret-holding onto the little wins while the rest of the world went on doing its thing.
I glanced at my closet, surveying the options. A pair of black trousers, neatly pressed and ready for duty. A blue shirt that I hadn't worn in ages, still crisp, its color standing out against the muted tones of everything else in my wardrobe. Polished shoes, the kind you only wear on special occasions, and tucked away in the corner, an old coat—forgotten with time, its fabric slightly worn but still serviceable. The old coat was a little nostalgic. I had worn it almost every day at one point, just two months ago. It felt familiar, like a piece of the past I hadn't realized I missed until I slipped it on again.
I hesitated for a moment, then made a decision. I would go to church.
It was Christmas, after all. The time of year when everything, no matter how dull or out of place, seemed to sparkle with jingle bells and a strange sense of possibility. Even if I didn't believe in the holiday's deeper meaning, there was something comforting about the ritual, the atmosphere. It felt like an escape, even if only for a little while. So I slipped into the clothes, putting on the coat that seemed to carry a bit of forgotten history with it, and made my way out the door.