The Receipt

Putting something off feels free. No effort. No time. No bill. You don't do it, so it costs you nothing. Right?

Say it's a form. Fifteen minutes, if you're slow. It's been on the table since the first of the month. You look at it, you sigh, and you tell yourself the usual thing.

But every time it crosses your mind, the register prints a line. In the shower. On the train. At two in the morning. A little attention. A little guilt. Two minutes here. Five minutes there. Never much.

You never see the bill, because nobody hands it to you. It just keeps running, somewhere behind you, while you get on with your day. You even feel a bit clever. Look at all the time you saved.

And at night you wonder why you're so tired, when you haven't even done the thing. You're not weak, and you're not lazy. You've been paying for it for weeks, in small change.

So read it. Not the total. Go all the way back up, to the very first line. Past the shower, past the train, past every two in the morning.

There it is. The form. Fifteen minutes. Everything below it is nine hours of thinking about it. You never saved those fifteen minutes. You've paid for them again and again.

You don't need more discipline. You're already paying the price. You might as well get the thing you're paying for. Fifteen minutes, and the register goes quiet. What's still printing for you?