Nocturne #48 – Procrastination

Silence in the room. Only the monotonous, barely audible whir of the laptop cooler. A bit irritating. Let me put on headphones and play some contemporary classical music; it always helps me write. A blank document is open on the screen, and the cursor blinks as if insulting me in Morse code: “Idiot… Idiot… Idiot…”

Good timing. While I spent the last three days trying to fix the almost dead operating system I damaged myself, inspiration struck – I must write. I must create. I must prove that I’m still alive, that making mistakes is easy, but fixing them is sometimes impossible.

And just then, somehow, I feel it. It doesn’t walk in. It simply appears. A sweet, comforting scent fills the air, simultaneously reminding me of freshly baked kada [Georgian pastry], Saturday morning, and the phrase “There’s always later.”

– Tired, aren’t you? – a voice whispers in my ear, soft as a fluffy blanket. I turn around. Next to my armchair, as if it’s nothing, stands it. My procrastination. Let’s provisionally call it “Proki.” It’s a long word, and you know I’m too lazy to write long words (no, I’m not an ass).

– Proki, come on, not now, okay? – I say tiredly. – Not today. I have a revolution planned today. First, I finish the first chapter of the book, then I drop the music album, then I need to make poster designs for social media, and if I have time left, maybe I’ll save the world too.

Proki smiles. With a smile that suggests my plans are the cutest joke it’s ever heard.

– Revolution? You poor thing, you need a self-care revolution. Look at yourself, your eyes are red from stress. Your brain needs a reboot. Here, open YouTube, let’s see what new things Apple has for 2025. You’ll never buy an iPhone anyway, but watching is soothing, right?

– I don’t want to watch Apple events; I want to finish my novel.

– Okay, okay… Then let’s just do 15 minutes of “scroll-therapy.” Let’s see who’s posting what, who’s vacationing where, who’s mocking whom. It’s an endless source of inspiration, you know. Or let’s watch one episode of “Rick and Morty,” it’s a brain workout.

– Proki, you don’t understand. I don’t have time. I’m over 30. Time is my enemy.

Here its face turns serious. It sits down next to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Its touch is incredibly calming, yet somehow, irritating.

– Zura, – it says sadly. – I am not your enemy. I am your greatest friend. I am your guardian.

– Guardian? Guarding me from what, my dreams?

– No. I guard you from disappointment. Look, you’ll sit down now, write this chapter… then the next… finish the book. And then what? What guarantee do you have that it will become a bestseller? That people will read it the way you want? That critics won’t say “another untalented amateurish scribble”? What happens if, after all that work, all those sleepless nights, your book simply… interests no one? Wouldn’t that pain destroy you even more?

I fall silent. It knows where to hit me. My imposter syndrome is like an atomic bomb in its hands.

– It’s the same with music, – it continues. – You create, spend nights discovering new sounds, creating new melodies, arranging, recording, releasing… And then? You sit and check the view count every minute. Your heart sinks at 49 views. Every heartless comment makes you think you’re failing. But I simply protect you. As long as you don’t finish anything, you are a genius. You are potential. Your novel is the best because it doesn’t exist. Your music is brilliant because no one has heard it. I keep you in this “ideal” state. Undefeated.

There’s so much sad logic in its words that I almost hug it. It’s right. It’s my fear, my insecurity, my comfort zone. I think for a while… This is the bitter truth. My work has almost never been appreciated. I am a dead fish floating downstream because I no longer have the energy to swim. Isn’t it true that I never managed to bring my work to a condition where it deserved wide attention? True, that I never had the luxury of having time that belonged only to ideas and not to the struggle for survival. I never had a studio, not even a small corner where my music would sound the way I hear it in my head. Nor the camera that would capture the frame my eyes saw. I sit and listen to it, and I realize that these thoughts multiply on their own, like a virus. One gives birth to another, creating an endless, concrete argument for why I should stay here, in this comfortable, warm inaction. It’s safe, after all.

But then, amidst these sad, self-pitying thoughts, something strange happens. Proki’s logic is flawless, but it has one flaw – it’s built on the past. It’s armor woven from my old fears. And what happens if I simply… take off this armor? And suddenly, everything becomes clear. This is just a story my mind tells itself to justify itself. Comfortable, but a trap.

– And you know what’s funniest? – I say, looking it in the eyes. – That you are my creation too. You are also a fruit of my imagination.

Proki seems confused for a moment.

– So, since you’re a part of me, – I continue, – then let’s agree on one thing. You can be here. You can sit next to me and whisper that I won’t succeed. But I will write anyway. You know why? Because the process turned out to be more important than the result. Because living in fear of disappointment is a greater disappointment. Because I’d rather be defeated as a fighter than live as a coward who never even stepped onto the battlefield.

Proki looks at me for a long time. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, it nods.

– Okay, – it says. – You have one hour. But then we’re watching that documentary about the gravitational anomalies of black holes.

– Deal, – I reply and turn back to the keyboard.

The cursor still blinks, but now it’s no longer insulting me. It’s waiting for me. And I begin to write.

And you? What are you waiting for?