I have a reputation for getting things done. I do not know where this reputation got formed, or why, or even how low the bar has been for people doing things that I, a person who dares to take a nap when there is still work to do, have amassed such a reputation. But then, people often misplace their trust and value how things appear, not how things are. For all nine or ten things I do every day, I have a thousand things left undone. For all books I do find the time to read, my apartment is littered with unread ones, waiting to be picked up once again; the bookmarks have been on the same page for so long you can see the soft bruises they have caused. In my heart, there is a want to do nothing. I believe it is the same for everyone else, but I manage to feign productivity. That much is to my credit. That I can take a bow for.
I jump at the first excuse to leave things for tomorrow, the next month, or, often, the following year. Every single thing I have done, I have done tardily. I am shocked at just how much I was able to do still, just how much I can do all day long, only by being painstakingly average. I make just the amount of effort that is necessary; no other, no more.
I only have unintelligibly ginormous undertakings; my effort is meagre and small in comparison. There is a permanent paucity of motivation in me. I am perpetually fighting an uphill battle, begging myself to get on my feet, imploring my hands to move. All these words I write, those I have written so far, result from continual coercion. My life is a side-effect of dreaming too big and falling short, and now that I think of it, so is my reputation for being productive, whatever that means. It is all just a result of looking at something I know in my heart is impossible and then proclaiming I will find a way. This is not courageous. This is dimwitted. All of who I am is a repercussion of my naivety and my unwillingness to wrap my head around the limits of time.
I reckon if there are no deadlines and your goals are as vague as your claims and estimates as roundabout as your metaphors, you can get away with doing almost everything you planned to do.