LazinessThe temporal anomaly that governs creativity is itself such controversial in nature that it eludes its own meaning and form.Or is it the excuse of a perfect mind that refuses to spring forth afraid lest it should fail to immortalize what it is about to do, that it ultimately doesnt?Or is it the rejection of social norms by a philosophical brooder the thinker whose mind has resolved, amidst other confusing resolutions, that the task to be done at hand is uselessly arduous, for the world itself has succumbed into a void of despair, regurgitated from the filth of a degenerative beast.Or is it just, the absence of a purpose? The mind is an avid wonderer, wandering among a ruined landscape of decrepit abandoned ambitions crushed by reality and torn to pieces; flashes of suspended hopes clasping on the throes of death.For laziness exists only when a chore awaits, left unattended by one, by whatever reason one deems fit.Even if it just involves sitting on a bed sitting, and staring into blank hopes and destroyed attempts.Strewn across the stained sheet they lay pitiful, morbid like an unborn life. Craving for completion, death, or both.Its funny, how accurately its an entire life, they reflect. Euphoria Desolation All merged into illegible hordes of scribbles. Oh you were a clever, clever chef. Witty fucking smart you Feed the chicken first. Make it happy. Make it fat. Then bring a knife to its throat.Watch it squirmwatch it flutter helpless, headless, pathetic as all life leaves itBut this chicken was stronger eh?It crossed the road for you. Fate, you petty fucking masochist.But why did the chicken cross the road? Why did I, cross, the road?What is laziness? The reluctance to do the needful even when its eminent.