The cold morning air has subsided while I have sat here, staring at a blank screen with a blinking cursor. The hills have turned hazy again as the city has come to life after a bout of early rains. The sky is still a bright blue, filled with fluffy white clouds. It does not seem it will rain until the evening now. I have noticed all this and more in the past two hours. Perhaps, three. It is natural to lose track of time when one is procrastinating. And since it will not rain for the foreseeable hours, I have no excuse to not begin writing.
Until a few hours ago, I could still make my case to the council in my mind: I was relishing and embracing the weather. You see, I have waited for monsoon for a long time now, and I am not like other people. It has rained daily for the entirety of last week, and it is all everyone wanted. The sultry summer air has been replaced by a humid waft or a cold shower, with nothing in-between. Now, most people want something else. They want it to stop, but I am not like them, so I sit and watch the rain for as long as it shall last. And therefore, the writing has to wait. With a case strong as this, I would convince my mind that this delay in my writing is justified.
And then, to convince me further, I would think about July. I would talk about how July has arrived. With it, only a single lesson graces the skies outside my window: nothing good comes from interrupting the flow of time. With an argument as strong as this, I could not deny myself this hour of prolonging, of staring at a blank page. Of course, now that the sky is clear, my defence has fallen apart, and I am nothing but a delinquent, wasting time. It is surprising how quickly things change. And as the world around me conspires for me to begin, to let go of this slow dilatoriness, this languid disposition of a slow Saturday morning, now turned into an afternoon as the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, it occurs to me I am out of coffee.
And like a stubborn mule, I sit at my desk, unwavering. There is a certain charm in not doing anything after all. Oh, to be the most prolific of sloths, the most productive of slackers, but on most days, a lethargic fool.