18th of October, almost 5 (4;47) pm.
The humming fan above me chopped the quiet with its irregular wobble. Afternoon light seeped through the curtain — a flat gold, like an apology for the day I'd already let get away from me.
The thought of what to do came towards one. Or two. I didn't know for sure.
When I finally rose, I said my prayers, but that was all — no breakfast, no plans, only a thick silence.
"Why waste your day, loser?"
"I don't know," I told my inner voice. "I just did not feel like doing anything."
"So you gave up?"
"Maybe."
"Say it correctly," the voice instructed. It was sharp now, even. I called him Muck. My manager. My opposite.
"All right," I sighed. "My biggest fears?"
He waited.
"One — my university installment's due on the twenty-seventh. I am jobless and broke.
Two — no career, no direction, only 1100 Elo in chess.
Three — that I talk about boxing, but I've never stepped in a ring.
Four — programming will take two years of daily work, and I can hardly manage to focus for two hours.
Five — I write, but it's leading nowhere.
Six — friends call and call yet am unable to go visit them."
Muck didn't say anything immediately. The silence was of the type that leaned against your chest.
"So," he said finally, "what do you plan to do?"
"I don't know," I said. "I tried all. Maybe I just should stop thinking and become a machine. Ten days straight. No breaks. Without questions."
"Movement without vision?" he asked.
"At least motion," was my response.
Muck's tone turned soft. "What kind of motion?"
"Boxing. I'm tired of sitting. I want to be in the world of boxing."
"Then start."
"Tomorrow," I said.
"Tomorrow? Why?"
"Because today I am the boss."
That made him laugh. "You?"
"Yes. And I got a will out for myself."
He leaned closer — though he wasn't really there. "Let's hear it."
I swallowed hard and uttered it:
"If you can't do these ten days, then do justice to yourself — and quit."
The fan clicked, ticking like a metronome of failure.
"Fine," Muck said. "Boss, tell me your plan for tomorrow."
"You want it from me or from you?"
"From me," he said.
He started pacing in my head, voice calm and measured.
"Listen, Silas. Chess and boxing are for the morning. You train when the world's still in sleep. That's when real work happens.
Sleep tonight by eight. That's your starting line. If you can't do that, you've already lost. And if you lose — you quit.
Up at four; prayer. Omit that, and you omit the principal duty of the day. More like I don't care, but you have barely survived without talking to your Lord?
At five sharp, limber up and lift weights. It will hurt for a few days, but pain is the down payment on change.
After that, freeze your position for three minutes. Then:
twenty push-ups,
Twenty sit-ups,
Twenty squats,
and a two-kilometer run.
When you return, stretch. Consume fruits, one egg white, and warm water. Shower. Watch the sunrise if it's there. Let the air sting your face.
Remember just one thing... I can't tell manage or create your schedule. That's for YOU. I can only tell you WHAT YOU MUST DO.
Then — chess.
Twenty-five minutes of mates in one, two, and three. Solve, don't skim.
Twenty-five minutes for games.
Material: Twenty-five minutes from Chess Tactics for Champions.
Learn. No haste.
Then watch one grandmaster game. Replay it in your head until you own it.
Next, coding — Responsive Web Design on FreeCodeCamp. Two boxes of twenty-five minutes. Learn. Don't coast.
Then write — and this means one story, one chapter, twenty-five minutes. Five-minute break. Then repeat.
Because, Silas, you want the money."
I watched him — or the version of me that he was — and quietly said, "You sound like a tyrant."
"And you sound like someone who's been making excuses."
He was right, and I hated it.
"Don't sacrifice your prayers," he said. "Don't sacrifice your health, your time, your family, your friends, your space — or yourself."
He stopped pacing. The air in the room grew thick. "It's now or never, Silas."
I eyed the curtain's dim light. "Now or never," I said again and again.
The fan went on turning. The hum remained steady. The silence wasn't the empty type — silence was a promise.