in the middle of beginning.
a poetry collection on procrastination, paralysis, and the process.
there’s something about having no choice but to get it done that moves me, just enough, to actually start what should’ve been started months ago. it’s not like i’m an unorganised person either. i’m fully aware of what needs to be done, and when it needs to be done by, and yet, if i’ve got time—too much time—i’m simply going to wait.
i said as much in the opening poem of my reveries on romance, fractions of failure, lines of limerence collection:
i’m waiting on a window to open / to open to a window of waiting […]’
i’d consider this collection to be a gathering of my ruminations on this specific fraction of my failure; the how and why in defence of my what being a toxic love of procrastination.
and yes, this collection has a sister essay on the challenges of creative conception.
i think you should go read that after this.
rise at sunset // set at sunrise.
they’re both the same,
the sun at sunrise and
the sun at sunset.
they’re both the same sun,
but they sun
so differently,
they might as well
not be.
liminal light.
the joy of a sunrise is wrapped
in the present of a day’s promise,
and only a fool would want to
shy away from it all, especially when
the moonlight’s been so dark, but
what if the promise of a day’s sun
ends up being too bright, and i learn
to yearn for darkness again?
what if my eyes aren’t quite ready
to see all that begs to be seen by them?
what if my brain prefers an empty slate, over
a canvas that interrupts my eclectic plate,
that consigns me to my regretful place
alongside the owls that howl, and wake
and bake in the twilight of the day?
what if i was made this way?
born to bask in the glow of light, sure,
but light is always departing or arriving,
light is always coming and
going into the light
coming straight out of a cave
feels like a very silly way to acclimate,
so i don’t. and i won’t. and i don’t
particularly plan on changing the fact
that the joy of a sunrise is wrapped
in the present of a day’s promise.
and i am the fool who chooses to
shy away from it all, and i’m not
quite sure when i’ll be willing to learn
to yearn for brightness more than i yearn
to learn why anybody gives a fuck
in the first place.
the “nothing” i reply with when asked “what are you working on?”
if i wanted to go, i could
go, and i want to go,
so, i’m going to go, but
how should i go?
how do i get there?
how do i reach the end
without even beginning?
and what about the middle?
because if i start like this,
i have to move like this, but
if i move like that, i should probably
start like this, but if i start like this,
i’m not even moving like that anymore,
so how am i supposed to settle the score
and win this war of attrition? i guess
it’s all about conviction, and moving with
intuition, but what happens when
i'm not convinced?
do i just stand still then?
i’m barely sure of anything, but i can’t just
not move—i’ll never get to the end
without beginning—so how do i begin?
i could start with a thing that implies
there’s a bigger thing coming, but
what if that’s too big of a way to start?
what if i can’t make a way to depart without
the pressure of a pedestal breaking a plinth? and
what if none of these things were made to syth?
and what if they can’t? (synthesise, i mean.)
does synthesis even need a plinth to begin with?
what if i just tear it all down, and
leave my prince without a crown?
what if i just take a break?
what if i just…
wait…
never mind,
it’s nothing.
artistic asphyxiation.
i tend to write late at night because
i find it easier then, to fly a kite—
when there’s less things in the air,
and less things to care about.
the only downside is that
the things i care about,
i care about a lot more, then,
i feel it in my lost core, and i’m left
reeling at my lost core, and i’m left
bleeding out my lost core, because
i bleed to find the lost lore that comp-art-
mental-is(ol)ation hid from me.
i’m so tired of bleeding; of losing myself;
of seeing myself lose myself;
of seeing myself losing myself, before
catching myself, before i lose it all again.
i’m so tired of seeing,
that’s why i close my eyes
as i yawn—because yawning
is just a tired body, trying,
and finding a way to usher in
more oxygen to breathe.
did you know your breath slows
when you’re fatigued?
that’s what it feels like
when i can’t write.
like my breath has slowed,
and i can’t even begin to whisper
the sound of an ode
to the paints of my pains and
their sensual splatters of splendour
that glitter and sparkle whilst also being
derived from renders of failure, and
rejection, and misguided attention, and
so i’m not ready to die just yet,
my ode is not complete, and this
play of mine deserves an ode
worthy of a seat at the table
in the script i now write for myself,
i just haven’t finished it quite yet—
and i’m learning that, sometimes,
that is okay. sometimes, it’s okay
to leave things incomplete, so you
can complete them when you defeat them later,
when you’ve gone through the process, and
learned how to savour whatever the flavour
life pushes upon your tongue, because
tasting something new isn’t a signal to run, but
more so a sign that the process has begun, and
you can never get to the end without beginning,
and some shit has to happen somewhere,
otherwise, where’s the story?...
no, actually: where is the story?...
i’ve lost it.
anyways…
i’m getting tired of this poem,
i should probably end it.
thank you for reading my beautiful reader <3