Last Minute Circus

It’s midnight. Instead of sleeping, I’m writing.

I have no one to blame but myself — I put this off all week long.

I hate this.

It’s always the same routine. I take shelter behind my shield of excuses. I dread and deflate, whine and cry, obsess and protest, moan and groan…

I want to do it. But I won’t let myself.

Until, finally, exhausted by my own resistance, I relent.

I lift the weight.
I write the word.
I draw the picture.
I do the thing.

I do it again. And again. It seems so easy now.

I surf the wave of my momentum. My hair dances in the wind. I’m riding high.

I love this.

Looking down from my palace of flow, I wonder: “Why would I ever resist coming here?”

I realize that a part of me enjoys the drama of procrastination. I revel in the thrill of pulling it off at the last minute. The longer the delay, the greater the reward.

I am the villain, the hero, and the audience in my own Last Minute Circus.

The next evening, I’m in the ring again.

New day, same old play. I’m booked for life.

I hear the bells for curtain call. Like clockwork, he appears beside me. My longtime friend, my lifetime foe: Me.

And the show goes on.