Procrastination

While slaving over homework, online quizzes, and excessively delayed cramming in the late of night for a class dubbed, "Physics", I've come to the realization that procrastination is not a lack of productivity but a basket case chalked full of it. It is not an excuse to forget work itself or neglect it but a method of release from that which torments the every corner, curve, and bump of your being:

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We procrastinate because we want to.
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Not because it is compulsory. Not because we are asked to nor because we are forbidden to. It is not a form of rebellion but temptation in its purest form: temptation to skip on over to the flower fields with wonders of lacking mental torture and the release of the accumulated pressure upon your weighted mind and pulsing temple.

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Procrastination is a form of objection - a method of screaming to those who can see: I am bored. It is the variable that sits on the left side of the mathematical, "greater than" sign. It is fun: more so than the previous task. It is just as productive and arguably less important, yet nevertheless the fruit of meaning.

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Procrastination tells a story.

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It creates understanding by shoving the screams of release right in authority's face. It expresses a deeper meaning than: I don’t' want to do my work. It shouts, sings, and speaks: This lacks interest. It writes the words of a broken wonder; soulless student; lack luster worker and pastes it upon the ocular pages of the reprimanding adult. It explains without sound but through action and desires.

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It's story telling, in a finer sense, is nothing more than a method to convey emotion and escape. It's a basket full of it: the flowers in the field or wonders. The mutual understanding that tasks can be the epitome of insipidness is conveyed through the desire to drop and run. It's the refreshment after working in the flower garden. The desire for a no-go; to return from the battlefield of hellish boredom.

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Escape isn't always a bad thing every once and a while.