I am in a narrow tower with a spiraling staircase. It stretches and extends infinitely. It is abysmal.
It is the Tower of Babel.
I cannot see the top. It calls out to me, whispers enchanting tales, speaks of greatness and all things desirous. But the downfall of the tower is equally palpable and imminent.
I thought that I had been ascending the nautical stairs. But, all this time, I’ve just been on a perilous descent.
I pick myself up, and I realize the reality:
If I walk all the way down, if I reach the lowest level—the base of this tower, I’ll find it.
I’ll find the corridor to the dungeon, where the deepest, darkest, and foulest monster is housed.
How can I describe this monster to you?
It is Beowulf’s mortal enemy, the dragon; it is Jörmungandr, who will surely bring about my demise; it is the creation-gone-awry of Dr. Frankenstein.
The monster is my own—a manifestation of my greatest flaws and fears.
If I do not muster the will and courage to face it, I will be destroyed; it will be a slow, tragic and pitiful end to me.
I fear, I delay, I evade it. In the end I am simply running away, tail between my legs, cowering, because I do not have the will to face it head-on.
But I will not lose if I confront it. I cannot lose against my own creation.
I must confront it,
The monster called procrastination.