The Pains of Procrastination

So I was just in a high school production of Sweeney Todd, I'm not going to say which high school in case I warrant any stalkers, but yeah. I didn't have any big role to play unless you count my special appearance as the letter carrier which lasted for a whole 12 seconds (approximately), but the thing about Sweeney Todd is that the ensemble actually plays a significant part throughout the show. So now that the 2 or so months of staying at school for 17 hours straight each day is over and done with, I'm finding that I have way too much time on my hands. For some odd reason I do better at getting my work done when I'm under pressure than when I have hours upon hours of leisure time in order to complete it. So I made an attempt at filling up my time with NaNoWriMo, but there was simply too much time for me to get anything done, as well as I'm terrible at sticking to my plots without getting bored of them. So now I'm just in a post-musical slump and I need to get things done but I can't find it in me to reformat my time management skills. It's almost like I'm a car, if my tires don't have any pressure in them I can't drive where I need to go. I'm such a procrastinator Dx

The breath of a book

Whenever I hold a book in my hand I love to stroke its spine and let my fingers absorb the words on the binding. My favorite type of book is one with deckle-edged pages. I love the feeling I get when I begin a new book. It's as if the ink swells through the pages and runs through onto my hands and across my skin until the whole story is etched into my heart. A whole new world in the palm of my hand is discovered as I open the cover. But when I close it again, it sings to me as if it were a siren. Pleading what only time can bring. And that smell of dust-lined pages; all the parchment, stationery, and papery wings of a book, held close with the threads of binding. And when I flip through those pages, like a fan, that other world I cradle in my hands blows a kiss of sweet, enchanting breath. As the ages wear on, and the book I once held becomes old and well-worn, that breath grows more enticing. A hint of the story trailing close behind. What would become of this book as our own story breathes on? Might its characters read our story enclosed in a book similar to their own? Would our stories grow together, beyond the limits of the paper and ink that we came from? I believe these questions I wonder are my own favorite part of each book.