Time stretches so endlessly before me. I want to fill it with something productive, something useful, something.

It looms like a blank page. Taunting me.

What do you want to create? What will you do today? What will remain of your legacy?

The push, the desire to create is there.

It is overwhelming. It is a buzz inside my brain.

And I do nothing.

I consume passively. It quells the noise.

There is a guilt at the end of the day. Another day. Nothing done. I squeeze it in the last minutes.

Never enough. Never enough. The buzz goes on.

Should I point out the irony of creating something about not creating anything?

Or can that remain unsaid?