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.