Really It’s Not
I’d like to tell you that my life is consumed by my work
But it’s not.
I have so many hobbies I would like to explore,
So many half-started interests
But my days are wasted by needless distractions
I knowingly do this, even now
It’s three in the morning, and here I am smoking one too many cigarettes
Staring up at a dark black sky, waiting
Waiting for me to instigate a change I won’t allow myself to make
To finishing my work so I can spend time writing,
I see myself conquering this seemingly insurmountable amount of work
Instead of living in fear of it
But my anxiety consumes me
I put it off for as long as I’ll allow myself to, in fear of my performance
Socially, academically, professionally,
All rushed attempts manufactured by my procrastination.
A self perpetuating cycle of torment that I’m afraid to break because it’s comfortable
I measure my failure by others’ successes
Dwelling in this bottomless pit of self-loathing
Am I genuinely doing my best? It doesn’t feel like it.
Every interest I explore ends in guilt
Guilt for not continuing to work
Is this a culture glorifying work? My own unrealistic expectations of a work ethic?
A lack thereof?
I procrastinate the work I can’t look at anymore
Telling myself I’ll return to it soon
But I don’t.
My days are filled by alternating between work and procrastinating it
There’s no time for anything else
Hours of labor during the day cumulate into evenings filled by fleeting desires
Followed by sleepless nights, groggy mornings and empty bottles
My work is never ending
And because it never stops, I never create
I’d like to tell you it’s because of this peak-less mountain I climb But really it’s not.