The little man dwells in the shoe. You may not notice him at first, due to the fact that he makes himself known in the subtlest of ways. The words not yet said. The fire not yet kindled. The painting left unfinished. Pretentious. Boring. Not working. The distinction that is never reached.
These descriptors may seem amateurish, but to apply a stroke to the canvas while thinking about judgmental seventh grade ‘friends’ or a YouTube art critic, is a feeling that is hard to categorize. My procrastination is not laziness or distraction or overconfidence: my procrastination is fear. My procrastination is my little man.
