By Hafsa Nasir
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The beauty of a morning, isn’t the sun. Sometimes, undeniably true that the sun brings the colors, it spells away the darkness and brings forth light, truth and all there is in a day. But the beauty of a morning in truth is hope. The hope we have for tomorrow, the hope that we will get something done, that what wasn’t today shall be tomorrow. But we have come to mistake that morning hope with PROCRASTINATION.
We say to our reflections that what can be today can also be tomorrow. We tell ourselves that we are lazy, that we aren’t enough made with the day’s energy to do what is expected of us today, that tomorrow will come. And true it will, it will saunter in through your curtains with the sun, poring holes and cracks on your walks, tomorrow will come and a new wrinkle will grow with your smile, your face or your scowl. The pen will remain on the pages and the “I” that hasn’t been dotted will remain a faint line and the “T” haven’t crossed will be a façade if an “I”.
There is something quite instinctive about procrastination, it is that most of us don’t know that the songs we sing on a daily is what becomes of our decisions, it is what becomes of who we are and what we do. Sometimes we aren’t at all lazy, we aren’t all not enough for that task and duty, we just in way over our heads, we just live in an Alice like wonderland of reluctance, the world where we believe that tomorrow is promised to us. Yes it is, there will always be a tomorrow, but whether you will be a part of it is the questions. History only remembered those who started, even if they never finished, even if they never achieved but they started. Sometimes it is okay to fail, to give yourself the opportunity the privilege of falling off, and tasting the dirt. The thing about “the now” is that it’s all we have, the now is all that we can see, what we can feel and still have the opportunity to make the best of. There are men who have lived and regretted, they never even failed, they never started when they said they would, all they did was breathe without the chance of anything new because they scare at the sight of change. They withdraw from anything alters the norms of their comfort, anything that says they should start afresh something. Time is a story with something new about the pages that unfolds blank in the day’s beginning. It’s the seconds that is spent making diligence of yourself that counts for something tangible, something one can feel, something that sticks, that counts with the time and all thereof.
A day can only be as productive as the chances we have accorded ourselves. So, that story you haven’t been able to write only starts with one word, that journey you haven’t taken begins with stepping out, that job is an application away from approval, that ,magnificent book is a page away from being read. When you don’t start you don’t finish, when you don’t make a move you remain stagnant.
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