I have a problem of putting off things, carrying things I know I need to do now to an unseen ideal tomorrow. A tomorrow that never comes. Deferring life to a latter date. Hoping then that my conditions will be utopian and I’ll be able to do that which I would have done now. Mostly when it comes to school assignments, deadlines, KPIs and deliverables; we live by, “If it’s not the due date, it’s not the do date!” The same problem occurs when it comes to my workout goals. I have this unwavering certitude that I’ll get ripped fit and lean by merely thinking about it. They have a name for it in Latin, err, ‘procrastinare’. Procrastination. I procrastinate sometimes. Scratch that, I meant next time.
I have a problem of looking over my shoulders way too many times before doing anything with my life. Ironically, as a pedestrian I rarely cross check the road as much before crossing. It doesn’t cross my mind that I could get mauled by an oncoming vehicle. If I cross and get to the other side alive that’s destiny, if I’m involved in a moribund accident then that certainly has to be fate. Fate will always be the yin to the yang. Still, I don’t give too much mind to it, I just get on with it anyway. But sadly when it comes to my day-to-day life, I’m overly scrupulous. Too fastidious for my liking. A tad too fussy. At times I may misconstrue the green light for umber or red. You can’t judge me because men are inherently color blind but that’s not the point.
What I mean is that I’m an overthinker. I have more drafts in my cache than blog posts online. On my keypad, the backspace button is far more punched than the rest of the letters in the alphabet. The next man has always been better than I am. Don’t tell me not to compare myself with others. Of course I’ve been privy to that all along. If you are any good, you understand that the best coaches do not play. And that’s my problem. I’m a seasoned onlooker with an unparalleled pedigree in spectating. Consistently commentating because of the lot of doers I am not. As if great men are born more than they are made. My problem is, I’m constantly deeming myself less and wishing I was more. Thinking that I’m an oddity among the conventional tribe of men. That I do not belong.
I’m a stickler for values and principles. It’s my hobby to memorise,recite and regurgitate them in conversations. I could even make a refrain to a song using them. Unfortunately that’s just about it. Seldom do I follow through nor live by them. Bad habits restrain my trifling efforts. From time to time, the nudge and need for a quick dopamine rush gets the better of me. So I head over to social media platforms and senselessly scroll when I could have been doing something more productive.
The back and forth of installing, uninstalling then again reinstalling Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat, for just one last time portrays my social dilemma. And my strong willed resolve not to fall prey to my hysterical whims. Kid you not, I went as far as trying out the pomodoro technique. However, the breaks I take are way longer than the required 25 minutes of uninterrupted work. This phone has enslaved me and for the most part I am complicit in my conscription. I have my neck in the noose neither am I making it any loose.
Needless to talk about my feeding habits. When I do eat, I partake for convenience instead of expedience. Eating is a pastime here in lieu of a survival act. Gluttony still gets the best of the best of us.
I do say yes when I don’t mean to. Take paths that do not lead to. It can be a life of purposeless action, things happening for the sake of happening. Doing stuff for just doing. Here’s my favorite part. I’m aware of it all. My heavy handed role in this degeneracy but I choose to complain. It’s more fun to complain. To crucify a sacrificial lamb for my baloney. It’s convenient – to have a pinata that invariably takes a hit for my misdeeds. Grumbling is the perfect snake oil, your ego suffers no repercussions but perhaps you’d care to look at how it eventually shapes your reality.
Behind the iridescent literary enthusiast cum writer and the entire gamut of superlatives; that I use to endear myself to the unsuspecting outside world. Lies this man who forms a substantial part of who I am. At times, a sheep sheathed in a wolf’s cladding. Living a glib life.
When I’m required to commit I pussyfoot. At least that has yanked me off vices like gambling; I can’t parlay to save my life. Most likely I’ll settle for a yawning boring draw. That notwithstanding, I still spend when I should invest. I relent when I ought to persist. I apologize to appease when it would have been wiser to let things go to hell in a handbasket. I meddle in reverie more than reality; pandering in inertia instead of hitting the ground running. This is the rubble I am made of. Yet when dusk falls and it’s apparent I’m miles apart from the life and future I desire. I ponder gravely to what extent the universe is conspiring against my fruition. But that’s never the case. It’s frequently my own doing. This is my stake in my stagnation. These are the chronicles of self-sabotage.
You know what you are supposed to do. But just because you know something doesn’t mean you can do anything about it, right? Maybe not.
I have a problem and I bet you have the same problem too.
