My Dear Procrastination,

 Oh, how long I've waited to write this letter to you. Fitting. That even in trying to call you out, you still take my hand, saying, "Later, love. There's always later." And then, as if by magic, we do our old dance—one step forward, two steps into Netflix, three steps scrolling endlessly into the void.

You're intoxicating, my love. You tease me with the illusion of time, where deadlines are suggestions and a sense of urgency an illusion. "You create your best at the last possible moment," you taunt, and oh, how I'm convinced. Again and again, I fall into your trance of bravado posing and looming catastrophe, swept up in the adrenaline rush you create when minutes tick closer to zero.

I will not lie to you: you have been right alongside me every step of the journey. When mountains of dishes piled up in the sink, when papers towered over me like guillotines, when opportunities came to the door and I smiled shyly before seeing them off with the phrase, "Perhaps tomorrow." And do not forget the late-night realizations—those flashes of sheer brilliance born of the furnaces of utter despair. You tend to make disorder feel like home. But, my love, I must ask—are you my best muse or my best captor? You set me free but entrap me in my own unfinished works. You tell me to rest, but never is it so, not when there is always the shadow of guilt looming over me. And though you spice life, I must ask myself what it would be like to awaken without the burden of your arms. And yet. How do I let you go? Who am I without you? What is life if not a never-ending game of attempting to push my luck as far towards disaster as I can before somehow, someway, scurrying back from the edge?

I know I'm meant to say goodbye. I'm meant to be strong, defy your siren's song, and take back my time. But let's be real—I'll most likely do it tomorrow.

Yours forever (at least until the deadline),

Me