These small hours still remain
Procrastination. Arguably the most widely mastered skill among college students. We ask not how we can efficiently complete all for which we are responsible but how we can successfully put it off for another time. We argue that there is no black or white with procrastination. It is the gray area of our gray matter. Invariably, we are putting off one task to give merit to another. Of course, each of us has our own means of prioritization, some more respectable than others.
The art of procrastination is like a rapidly spreading disease. One that consumes our hearts, minds, and actions. One that powerfully penetrates our every move until we are paralyzed. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For every reward of procrastination, we also face a consequence.
For most of us, procrastination is an appropriate behavior when time seems limitless. Why use three weeks when we’ve come through in three hours? It’s only when most of the sand of the hourglass has settled at the bottom and the last grains are rushing through the funnel that we feel a sudden rush of pressure, anxiety, and worry.
Life intensifies when time is limited. It’s in those last two minutes of the exam that formulas start rushing to our heads. It’s in those last seconds of the episode that the character meets his fate. It’s in those last moments of an experience that we realize how much has been left unfinished. How much there is to accomplish. Admittedly Dr. Seuss-esque, we suddenly find that we have people to meet, places to go, and not enough time to do so. The race against time comprises our full commitment and dedication. We fast-forward experiences for the namesake check mark. We go through the motions. We forge the interactions, just to see if we were missing out before. Once in a while, we’ll strike gold. And others, we are left disappointed. Maybe there is something to be said for living a more constant existence. Not one of constant procrastination, but one of constant impulsiveness. One where we seize the opportunity at its presentation instead of chasing its remnants.
We can never know what the future holds in store for us. But we do know that time eventually runs out. No, I'm not going for existentialism. I’m referring to the phases of our life, not life itself. As long as it’s not my stab at Harry Potter or The Da Vinci Code, at some point or another, the chapter must come to a close. We reference previous ones, we foreshadow future ones, but the current chapter is one in itself, and restricted by length. The best ones, of course, are the ones that are gripping from first word to last. Nobody wants to read an entire chapter only to find that the meat of the plot is a denizen of the last paragraph. Worse, if it’s boring enough, the reader might never even make it to that last page.
As you write your story, systematically postponing the thick plot twist, tread carefully down the slippery slope between "not now" and "never."
The art of procrastination is like a rapidly spreading disease. One that consumes our hearts, minds, and actions. One that powerfully penetrates our every move until we are paralyzed. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For every reward of procrastination, we also face a consequence.
For most of us, procrastination is an appropriate behavior when time seems limitless. Why use three weeks when we’ve come through in three hours? It’s only when most of the sand of the hourglass has settled at the bottom and the last grains are rushing through the funnel that we feel a sudden rush of pressure, anxiety, and worry.
Life intensifies when time is limited. It’s in those last two minutes of the exam that formulas start rushing to our heads. It’s in those last seconds of the episode that the character meets his fate. It’s in those last moments of an experience that we realize how much has been left unfinished. How much there is to accomplish. Admittedly Dr. Seuss-esque, we suddenly find that we have people to meet, places to go, and not enough time to do so. The race against time comprises our full commitment and dedication. We fast-forward experiences for the namesake check mark. We go through the motions. We forge the interactions, just to see if we were missing out before. Once in a while, we’ll strike gold. And others, we are left disappointed. Maybe there is something to be said for living a more constant existence. Not one of constant procrastination, but one of constant impulsiveness. One where we seize the opportunity at its presentation instead of chasing its remnants.
We can never know what the future holds in store for us. But we do know that time eventually runs out. No, I'm not going for existentialism. I’m referring to the phases of our life, not life itself. As long as it’s not my stab at Harry Potter or The Da Vinci Code, at some point or another, the chapter must come to a close. We reference previous ones, we foreshadow future ones, but the current chapter is one in itself, and restricted by length. The best ones, of course, are the ones that are gripping from first word to last. Nobody wants to read an entire chapter only to find that the meat of the plot is a denizen of the last paragraph. Worse, if it’s boring enough, the reader might never even make it to that last page.
As you write your story, systematically postponing the thick plot twist, tread carefully down the slippery slope between "not now" and "never."
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