A sense of dÃ©jÃ vu dawned and I chuckled inwardly. I was in this situation the last time an essay was assigned; sitting in the dark, silently watching sunrise slowly dim the fluorescence of my computer screen. Still, all that was accomplished was a few sentences not even close to meeting requirements. Sighing a sigh filled with anxiousness, I focused my attention back to the task at hand. Keys clacked and thoughts escaped into a meaningless menagerie of words, unstructured and confusing. Glancing at the clock heightened the pressure I put upon myself, and dread started to fill me up like a balloon.
In mere hours the bin collecting papers should be filled with essays, including mine: operative word being ˜should'. Wild excuses and alibis were beginning to unearth themselves as ludicrous escape plans were taking shape, each more feasible than the next. I needed time I just couldn't have, but I felt guilt bubbling at even the thought of lying. I prayed for a jolt of brilliance, a fresh surge of initiative, even a possibility that all of this was just a bad dream. They never came. Instead I chastised myself for procrastinating yet again and took my fury out on the keyboard. Letters became words, words became sentences, and sentences became paragraphs. In turn those paragraphs molded my essay just as the alarm, to awaken me, sounded futilely.
Although completed and punctual, my essays are never all they should be. I keep advising myself not to procrastinate and to allow myself enough time to carefully plan and structure, but, somehow, it never happens. I thrive under pressure; it seems to be the only driving force I have into getting menial tasks accomplished. Frightening, yes, but, in the end, the product is much more essential than the means.