Idling into an idle mind

When I was 16, an acute “gentleman” an ex-teacher of mine bathed me with his wisdom's pouch, used to say he never knew a boy who could do less work in more time; and I remember my poor mother once incidentally observing (truly more than once), in the course of an ordinary business, that it was highly improbable that I should ever do much that I ought not to do, but that she felt convinced beyond a doubt that I should leave undone pretty well everything that I ought to do.

I am afraid I have somewhat belied half my mom’s prophecy. Dear God, what have you done to me! I have done a good many things that I ought not to have done, in spite of my laziness. But I have fully confirmed the accuracy of her judgment so far as neglecting much that I ought not to have neglected is concerned. Idling always has been my strong point. I take no credit to myself in the matter; it is a gift. Few possess it. There are plenty of lazy people and plenty of slow-coaches, but a genuine idler is a rarity. He is not a man who slouches about with his hands in his pockets. On the contrary, his most startling characteristic is that he is always intensely busy.

Conspiracy theorists have speculated over the years that there is indeed a mysterious cult named Idleness that exists and is hell-bent on spreading the epidemic onto people with high density of indolence, potential people like you. Their cult leader is said to be the great Charles Darwin who is rumored to be the same person as Donald Trump. For many years, their existence was disputed among well-known scholars, until in the year, 1982 on March 13th when it was officially announced by a very joyful father that mass idleness is very much in the scene.

People like me according to the common mythology would able to survive in various generation that may exist. Working alongside workaholic nazis has never been an issue. All of us are busy; the only difference is mine is an act. It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do. There is no fun in doing nothing when you have nothing to do. Wasting time is merely an occupation then, and a most exhausting one. Idleness must be stolen. I like idling when I ought not to be idling; not when it is the only thing I have to do. That is my nature. The time when I like best to stand with my back to the fire, is when my workload is insurmountable with brutally tight dateline. When I like to dally longest over my dinner is when I have a heavy evening's work before me. And if, for some urgent reason, I ought to be up particularly early in the morning, it is then, more than at any other time in the world that I love to lie an extra half-hour in bed. No issue there.

Ah! how delicious it is to turn over and go to sleep again: "just for five minutes." Snooze button? Yes. Just for five minutes, I promised. Snooze button? Yes. Another five minutes, please. Is there any human being, I wonder, besides my father who ever gets up willingly? Ah! My father, he’s my faithful “alarm clock” for 15 years. Back then, there’s no such thing as five minutes. Before even two minutes past, a kick on my backside is reckoned.

There are some men to whom getting up at the proper time is an utter impossibility. If eight o'clock happens to be the time that they should turn out, then they would lie for another half-hour. If circumstances change and half-past eight becomes early enough for them, then nine o’clock would have its honour. They are like the purveyor of their own principle; always punctually half an hour late. They try all manner of schemes. They buy alarm-clocks (artful contrivances that go off at the wrong time and alarm the wrong people). They tell Oprah Winfrey to knock at the door and call them, and Oprah Winfrey does knock at the door and does call them, only for them to grunt back "arrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhh, go away you fat racist bitch!" and then go comfortably to sleep again. I knew one man who would actually get out and have a cold bath; and even that was of no use because afterward he would jump into bed again to warm himself which does reminds a little bit of myself.

I think I could keep out of bed all right, no issue if I once got out. Now, come the hardest part. It is the wrenching away of the head from the pillow that I find so hard, the comfyness, the softness of the touch, the restfulness that befalls on the head and no amount of over-night determination or any other temptation makes it easier. I say to myself, after having wasted the whole evening contemplating, "Well, I won't do any more work tonight. I’m done here; I'll get up early tomorrow morning and I’ll continue my work;" and I am comprehensively resolved to do so, before I jump to bed. However, the next morning has its own story, I feel less enthusiastic about the idea and reflect that it would have been much better if I had continued last night.

It is a strange thing that this bed, this little comfy grave of ours can do. "Oh bed, oh bed, my lovely bed, I love being in my bed, while I lie and dream at night, the stars and moon are shining bright, then I wake up the next day, the bed is so warm till I headache, so I go back to sleep again, but if I sleep I would be dead, so I’ll wake up for work which I hate, and go to work and I’ll be late."

Good night, everyone.