It's weird how a few days can feel like an eternity.
I have a notebook at home. I write in it some nights. Other nights, when I feel like I have a solid or interesting idea to share, I toss you folks a Blaug entry. On the nights that I don't write, I at least write down the date and a one- or two-word description of why there's not more on that day. Most of them just say "skipped" or "fell asleep".
Well, the last time I wrote something decent in my notebook was January 29th. The next night I wrote my previous Blaug entry and the night after I wrote some pretty crappy dialogue for my Spencer story, which I find hard to qualify as an entry for Project Resolution. Then I skipped one night, started a Blaug draft for Valentine's Day the next, and then skipped two more nights until tonight when I both wrote in the notebook and I tapped out this little ditty of an entry.
It feels like it's been forever since I've written. I'm not sure why, but it definitely felt like I fell off the wagon there for a while...like I'd hit the Second-Month Slump (TM) that threatens all good resolutions. I attribute this mostly to a sudden and inexplicable lack of enthusiasm for my craft. And in this weakened state, I cast around for distractions...and I found one of the most dangerous, mere inches from my face.
There I am, trying to think of something to write, and >blink!< ...away goes my desktop. Here comes a parade of familiar faces. There's me at Homecoming in 2004! There's when Maman Sibyl and Mom and Dad came to visit me at my apartment! There's me and Whitney in D.C.! It's the "My Pictures" Screensaver.
An hour later, I'm drifting off to sleep without having found something to write about. It's so hypnotizing and comforting. Looking at all of the memories captured and flashing at an easy, steady pace before my eyes. I'm powerless to stop it, but it's so...so... damn... pleasant....
But the danger isn't limited to my computers...no no no. Mom and Dad both have theirs set to show these attention quagmires. You can be in the middle of a conversation about something as serious as the death of the community's llama or how they've found a cure for war, but when that first family photo pops up, it's over. One of you may giggle or comment or break eye contact for a split second...whatever it is, that's when the other person looks over and starts explaining what each picture is or the quick story behind it. These things are dangerous. Now we'll never be able to navigate our conversation back to the important topic of how to give first aid for a dragon bite when you're stranded in the desert.
The MPS is the perfect procrastination trap. It seems so innocent in its passive process. Its sweet siren song lures you in with its familiarity; like that annoying pop song that you've only heard enough of to recognize the chorus, but every time you friggin hear it, it's stuck on repeat in your head for the next two damn days. But with the Screesaver, there's no limit to how much time gets sucked away from you. At least with the pop song thing you have some possible solutions to get away from it:
- Go listen to that song and get it outta your system
- Flood your poor little brain with so many other annoying songs that it becomes impossible for one to stick out in your mind all by itself.
- Drag your neighbors and loved ones with you in a downward spiral towards whichever ring of Hell is reserved for the scribes of these hatefully catchy tunes and those who can't shake 'em by singing/humming/whistling said tune over and over until you die from terribleness.
The MPS is also comparable to the Mirror of Erised from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. You sit in front of it and watch as your desires (or in this case, fun memories) float in front of you. The problem is, however, that the time is flying by you as well.
Now, this Blaug entry wasn't meant to place the blame SOLELY on the MPS, but more to call everyone's attention to this time leech. If you do decide to use this dangerous drug, please minimize the amount of pictures that are available to it. You can limit its evil power by doing so, and thus increase your chances of spending a few minutes in its grasp rather than a few hours.
It's a terrible feeling when you wake yourself up to the realization that you've been standing in the middle of a room, drool running down through your soul patch, staring at a cavalcade of pixels for much longer than you could have ever planned to. Meanwhile, the things you really wanted or needed to get done have gone neglected, such as my writing for the past week has...
In a weird way, I guess you could say that it can waste an eternity in mere minutes.
