The 21st century, with its iPhones and our relentless drive to exploit artificial intelligence to the fullest, is slowly but surely distancing us from art, history, and our own humanity. It is becoming an effort to consume anything beyond social media — platforms that, despite their overwhelming abundance of content, often offer very little of substance.
Being in what are supposed to be the best years of my life, I find it surprisingly difficult to go out for a coffee alone, in the city, accompanied only by my thoughts or a good book. I find it equally challenging to take a walk through a city with splendid architecture without a specific purpose, as if even the smallest pause in my schedule would trigger a catastrophe. And then, the schedule itself becomes the real problem. The guilt of deviating from it feels overwhelming. It promises productivity, success, balance — to help you achieve everything while also reminding you to rest. It keeps track of the important meetings you dread but attend anyway, and rewards you with a small, fleeting satisfaction each time you tick a box as completed. So we start making lists. A shopping list. A list of films we want to watch, books we want to read, places we want to visit, restaurants we want to try on a busy Tuesday evening under a blood-red sunset. I am certainly one of those people. I need a list of lists just to feel that I have some control over the chaos I wake up to every day. And yet, I cannot help but wonder: when will we stop making lists of things we plan to do “someday” and simply begin? How long will we keep waiting for that Tuesday evening with a blood-red sunset?
I’m sure psychologists would quickly come up with a name for the state behind my question, without much hesitation. After all, psychologists label thoughts and conditions the way vendors label bananas in the fruit aisle. I prefer to call it something much simpler: comfort — a reckless combination of laziness, fear of the unknown, and the reassuring whisper, “I’m fine like this, for now.”
I must point out, however, that I am proud of myself. I recognized my problem and faced it — the first step in any battle, whether fought by addicts or by cowards. The next part is more complicated: how do I free myself from procrastination? Should I make a list of the steps I need to follow?I admit, I am tempted like the one lying with one last cigarette
I asked a friend — a list enthusiast himself — how he copes with the pressure of ticking things off. He laughed and then offered the most disappointing answer possible: you have to schedule yourself mentally, with a fixed routine. But what if my laziness is louder than the alarm on my phone? What happens then? The checkbox remains empty, the guilt grows heavier, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the list will vanish like a bad dream. At the end of the week, he adds, you should do a report — review what you managed to accomplish and what you didn’t. Is it worth trying?
As for me, I’ve noticed that my desire to be productive is closely tied to the environment I’m in — and, more specifically, to my constant need to change it. When I grow too comfortable in my gaming chair at home, I trade it for the azure-blue armchair in my tiny apartment in Unirii Square, or for a small sofa by the window in a café. A simple shift in scenery feels like a reset button. Next on my list — at the very top — is a true test of my concentration: the library at the Western University.
And so, somewhat embarrassingly late, I arrived at a conclusion: willpower, concentration, and blocking my iPhone are the secret ingredients to solving my small procrastination problem. At least professionally speaking. But beyond that? When will I allow myself to admire that blood-red sunset again?
-AE
