Being productive

Every productive thing I do these days is a result of either making up to my laziness or proving self-worth. If that's the case, would you still call it "being productive"? I rush on things just so I can get it over with. I forget the essence of the task because I always find it burdensome. I pass my report before the deadline so I can slouch around the night before. Because that's what I enjoy doing. 

John Lennon once said, "Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted." 

I slack off because I completely despise adulting. I hate how the world came about, like a clock, programmed to go one way, in one direction, limited for only 12 hours. And then it restarts. And unluckily, we sleep on it. 

I freak out because I completely missed out on a lot. I grab my codals and get over as many provisions as I can in one seating. My anxiety gets obliterated by the temporary knowledge that would soon be scratched off later that evening. 

I am constantly just making up to myself if I'm not rewarding myself. And I am rewarding myself far too much when I'm not making up to myself. I hate how my life came about, like a clock, programmed to go one way, in one direction, limited for only 12 hours. And then it restarts. And unluckily, I don't sleep on it.