procrast

Perhaps procrastinating is not so much a laziness to get started. Nor is it simply the calm before the storm that somehow lulls the mind into sloth. Rather, it could be you clinging onto what is left of the slivers of peace that you know is, because they are wont to disappear. Seconds pass by like hours; and then it is time. The switch flips. Hours pass by like seconds, and you find yourself in a heady rush, a deep anxiety gripping your feet to the ground as you flail your ponderous limbs forward, each step as though dripping with mud. Your brain pounds from a mix of excitement and fear. Senses are heightened and the air rings with an intensity of information that is almost audible to you as you desperately try to string them into coherent phrases and fill up double digits of pages. The minutes you have left to type mock your words per minute typing speed. Too slow, they taunt. You have five more papers on the backburner. Are you sure you still want to aim for an A? Line by line, paragraph by paragraph, you push pages, trudging, gasping, refusing the ton of eyelids pulling over your eyes, ever-regretting not starting during that calm. Then — you're done. By the witching hour hunger pangs, by the coffee-laced breath, by the dark lakes that gathered beneath your eyes, by Grace that guarded your every moment. And then you sleep.

I remember those days. And I am back again, procrastinating taking a break — as I remember them.