It started out like any other day. A heavy breath as the break of morning arrived, the sun peeking through the curtains and hitting his face. A silence echoed the room, the air was stale and thick with the ambition that had escaped his body countless times.

The shuffling of blankets being heard as he dragged himself out of bed and stood tall at the edge. His room was a mess, chaotic, almost like someone set off an explosive but instead of debris it’s pens, plastic bottles either empty or half-filled, clothes that lay on the floor like dead comrades in arms in a war against Order and Basic Hygiene. Standing like the victor of a war with no winners he ignored the debris and instead opted to walk out and start his routine, the shuffling of feet on the carpeted stairs as he reluctantly woke up both in body and mind. The soft inhale and shiver as his bare feet hit the cold flooring, walking past the living room he glanced at the coffee table which was covered in scrap paper, crumpled and/or covered in black X’s, expertly done to hide the notes he had written the night before.

The sharp whistle howling from the kettle as hot vapour rushed out. In his head, he pictured the vapour as ships sailing in the open air and miniature cloud pirates battling out in the sky for the reward of booty! Chuckling to himself he wiped away the intense battle and cleared his head, instead seeing the pour of his water into the mug as a tranquil waterfall, One that is said to hold the keys to morning enlightenment and productivity. He took a sip of his dark coffee, albeit his face still screamed: “Its too early!”

Lumbering back into the living room and using one of the discarded notes of his work as a coaster he opened up his laptop and proceeded to procrastinate like a true self-proclaimed author. Every day he felt an urge in his stomach to write, judging himself when he took the position to claim he was writing and being productive but instead idly wasting away the hours of the day giving himself the feeling of progression without ever taking a step in the right direction towards writing what he truly cared about.

It wasn’t long before he was stuck in a rut doing the same toxic routine and yet claiming to have written hundreds if not thousands of words to fellow peers and that he was “Almost done” yet never having written a full sentence on any page, let alone a full novel.

His sleepless eyes were as dark as the coffee he drank, the only way his skin tone looked like a healthy colour was when light from his monitor illuminated his face, his sheer presence almost stalker-like as if his eyes trace around a room yet follow you at the same time. Little did most people know it was a lack of observation and more creative vivid daydreaming about inspirational material. What most would see as a sleep-deprived student who had crammed for a test the night before and is on the verge of being an ethereal spectre if they don’t drink their 15th cup of coffee to last them through the evening, was in fact internally a creative young individual with the skillset to write great novels but with the functioning and planning skills of a wet napkin. Externally he was also built like packing peanuts before they were made prime and proper for the protection of cargo.

Some would call what this gentleman is going through “Writer’s block”, though to be frank, that would imply there was writing to be blocked. His talents wasting away as he searches the web for 10-minute long endorphin hits and guides to games he would further procrastinate on like a slave in his own mind. He delved deeper and deeper into the chasm of self-doubt that he would ever break the chain of toxic procrastination.

Whilst his face bathed in the light of absent time-wasting in the form of goofy videos he heard a ping and a notification on his social site, one from an old friend who also was indeed a writer, albeit one who actually wrote and had pages of creative stories to back up being an author. He recalled the time spent at libraries with his peer, revisiting the scenes in his head like a picture book, flipping through the great memories of laughing and intense studies of literature, desperate to write the best up-and-coming books at such a young age. As he enjoyed the high relief of nostalgia he clicked open the messaged to see it was less a message and more just a friendly hello and a link to a book.

His eyes lit up like a child at Christmas, he couldn’t help but smile as he knew what was inside. He simply typed back “Am so proud of you! I knew you could do it”. As he pressed Enter he felt pride for his friend and the hollow hole in his heart that was disappointment in himself. He looked at the sea of notes that laid before him on his coffee table. In his mind, he could see them moving like waves, the words droplets of water and the pages strong currents holding them in place. However, that was all they were...words in an ocean drifting with no purpose.

He looked back at the message and saw the reply:

“Thanks! I just hope you can finish yours soon! I’ll introduce you to my publisher, I know how close you have been to finishing your book.” It was almost like the words pierced through the screen and delved deep into his pride like a fatal wound to the soul.

He knew deep inside what he must do…

He took a deep breath and started typing. The words like a thought bubble out of a comic book propped above his head as he started overthinking what he was going to say. He had spent too long in a well of lies and he now craved the sweet release of honest freedom. He bundled his notes, looked at his works of Yesteryear and smiled. As he clicked enter on his keyboard he felt a heavy weight unburden from his shoulder, his message reading:

“I have something I need to talk to you about”, for once taking a progressive step towards his dreams.