The Procrastinationist

Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap, my pen hits the desk. Developing a rythm of it's own, waiting to be put into motion. Becoming procrastination in itself, defeating its purpose. I stare down at the white plain laid before me, the blue lines resembling the prison my own mind has worked itself into. Try and try as I might, I cannot bring myself to join paper to pen, reluctant to commit my words from whence they can never be taken back again.

Tap, tap, tap-tap-tapity-tap, funny word, "whence" i think to myself. Not for any particular reason of course, words are just funny sometimes; like bubbly. And from there, i begin to roll bubbly around in my mouth, savoring my newfound distraction.

Tap, tap, tap-tap-tapity-tapity-tap, tap, tap... Sighing in exasperation, i let the pen roll aside, crumbling my white blue-lined prison in my hand. I then toss it aside as well. If my metaphor were to be applied to every single blank sheet strewn across the stained brown carpet of my room, then they would certainly be the equivalent of an entire jail complex by now.

I run my hands through my hair and turn my eyes up to the fluorescent light. Like a harsh otherworldly sun, it burns my retinas and I avert my gaze. I rest my chin and elbows on the desk and cover my head with my hands. I swivel my chair in the opposite direction, planting my bare feet on the floor I cross to the other side of my room, carefully picking my way through discarded jail-cells. I go through the door, pushing inward slightly to compensate for the loose mechanism before pulling it open, I enter directly into the hallway. The carpet is much cleaner out here and there is a little blue line running along the wall I made with a crayon when i was five. For one reason or another, neither my parents or I had bothered to clean it. For a second, i wonder why and I turn off to the left, entering the living room. My father lay snoring on the couch, his face casting ghastly shadows from the eerie light given off from the television screen.

I pad across this room too, my mind blankly buzzing like the static spewing from the T.V.'s speakers. I find myself in the reflective hall of mirrors that is our kitchen, my face reflected a dozen times over in the sterile visage of metal appliances. I brave the cold linoleum and find the fridge. Tracing the path from memory, my hand brushes bottles of condiments aside and plucks the second to last soda from the plastic six pack in the back of the fridge. I rub the cool surface against my face, enjoying the feel of cold metal on my warm cheek.

I wait until I've re-seated myself again in my room, amidst discarded paper prisons and harsh alien stars. Then, in the safety of my isolation, I open the can with a crack and gulp down two mouthfuls of cavity inducing goodness. I let the can rest on my desk, next to a fresh blue-lined jail, I pick up my pen… tap, tap, tap, tapity-tap-tap. A new amateur rhythm begins and the cycle starts again. I quit the rhythm and spin in my chair, letting myself feel dizzy for lack of anything better to do.

I find the amount of simile and metaphor I can use to describe my little adventure only slightly amusing. How strange that so many words could be crammed into one menial task, and yet try and try as hard as I can I still can't introduce paper to pen.

I stop my mindless spinning and pick up the can of caffeinated bliss. Raising it to my lips, I instantly know that it will tide me over into the wee hours of the night… and even then, ink shall not cut through those blue prison lines.

Tap, tap, tapity-tapity-tap-tap-tapity-tap… writer's block is a harsh mistress indeed.