(the prelude is here)
Somehow it all comes down to Jack. It just does. It's written. No matter how much I try to avoid it, it just comes right back to bite me in my ass and remind me of its existence. To remind me that it will always be there for me, just how the Bollywood hero promises his beloved beau.
Ok, the deal is that I'm trying, with as much power as there is in my arsenal, to phase out the beloved Jack. People forget my real name. Or worse - they don't even know it! I mean I don't want to become a famous guy in the future and be known as Jack Patel. That would be a huge disgrace to Pratik. Huge injustice! If there's anything inside me that will contribute to me being a famous guy, it will most likely come from Pratik, not silly lil' Jack! Jack is only good for sowing the seed of multiple personality disorder - which I'm very confident of acquiring in the distant future.
See, the way I look at it is that there are in general two parts of me: there's Pratik and then there's Jack. Pratik is a little more serious, a little more boring. At times, he just gets lost in a trance, making others around him think he's lost or that something is wrong with him. Pratik doesn't use plastic bags. Pratik wants to write (but he doesn't). Pratik pisss people off because he urges them to car-pool. But Jack! He's a little different. Jack can crack a few jokes. Jack's laughs evoke great intrigue. Jack is easier to get along with. Jack stays up late at night. Jack is childish! And there are times when these two merge into a whole other person (let's not give him a nickname). (This is the height of self-indulgent self-analysis!)
So know this: where there is a Jack, there is a Pratik. Kindly not forget please ...