Putting it off.

Putting it off. As if the moment will be better in a future that does not exist. “I will feel more like it then.” 

I was going to write a piece on love, because I want to write a longer piece on love. And yet here I am writing about putting things off in an attempt to put off the piece on love. Maybe I should just sit down and write that.

Sometimes I think if my surroundings change I’ll feel more like writing. If I go to a cafe, if the music is right, if I’m looking out from the window at a busy street. I’ll write then. I’ll do my work then.

I am also hard on myself. If I binge-watch a series, if I have a lie in on more than two days in a row, if I have a nap. I feel bad about it.

But if I just sat down and did the stuff I needed or wanted to do, if I didn’t have such a struggle in my head about it, I could relax without any hassle from my internal monologue.

I wonder if I could just get that voice in my head to shut up. Well, we’d all be much more chilled out without that problem.

The thing is you don’t take much in of anything when you’re constantly telling yourself you should be doing something else, all the while another voice is telling you to put it off.

It is a wonder I get anything done with this endless monologue. Endlessly putting ‘it’ off, endlessly berating myself. All a figment of my mind, I suppose.

I did not write this blog post in a cafe, the rain running down the window, a hot cup of coffee steaming. I wrote it on the sofa on my phone, finally finding the energy to pause the TV. It may not be a post on love, but at least I stopped putting it off.

And that’s the first step, right?