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PROCRASTINATION

The day after tomorrow, yes, only the day after tomorrow ...
Tomorrow I’ll start thinking about the day after tomorrow,
Maybe I could do it then; but not today ...
No, nothing today; today I can’t.
The confused persistence of my objective subjectivity,
The sleep of my real life, intercalated,
Anticipated, infinite weariness—
I’m worlds too weary to catch a trolley—
That kind of soul ...
Only the day after tomorrow ...
Today I want to prepare,
I want to prepare myself for tomorrow, when I’ll think about the next day ...
That’d be decisive.
I’ve already got the plans sketched out, but no, today I’m not making any
plans ...
Tomorrow’s the day for plans.
Tomorrow I’ll sit down at my desk to conquer the world;
But I’ll only conquer the world the day after tomorrow ...
I feel like crying,
I suddenly feel like crying a lot, inside ...
That’s all you’re getting today, it’s a secret, I’m not talking.
Only the day after tomorrow ...
When I was a kid the Sunday circus diverted me every week.
Today all that diverts me is the Sunday circus from all the weeks of my
childhood ...
The day after tomorrow I’ll be someone else,
My life will triumph,
All my real qualities—intelligent, well-read, practical—
Will be gathered together in a public notice ...
But the public notice will go up tomorrow ...
Today I want to sleep, I’ll make a fair copy tomorrow ...
For today, what show will repeat my childhood to me?
Even if I buy tickets tomorrow,
The show would still really be the day after tomorrow ...
Not before ...
The day after tomorrow I’ll have the public pose I will have practiced
tomorrow.
The day after tomorrow I’ll finally be what I could never be today.
Only the day after tomorrow ...
I’m sleepy as a stray dog's chill.
I’m really sleepy.
Tomorrow I’ll tell you everything, or the day after tomorrow ...
Yes, maybe only the day after tomorrow ...
By and by ...
Yes, the old by and by ...”
― Fernando Pessoa