I Am Lava
They say lava is slow. But I don’t think that’s fair. Lava is deliberate. It’s methodical. It’s patience made visible — heat that refused to burst until it was sure. I’ve started to suspect that I, too, may be composed of silicates and stubbornness.
Procrastination, then, is not idleness.
It is preparation in its most primal, incandescent form. Beneath the crust of my seemingly inert exterior, there is movement — subterranean and unseen.
Ideas churn like molten basalt under a volcano's deceptive stillness. And while the world above demands productivity and urgency, I am beneath, reverberating softly, not ready to rise.
The ancients named their volcano gods with reverence and fear — Pele, Vulcan, Hephaestus — each one a deity of creation through destruction, of magnificent outbursts after long dormancy. Maybe they understood something we don’t: that power brewed slowly is power earned.
People often mistake my inaction for inertia. What they don’t see is the tectonic ballet underneath. They call it procrastination; I call it pressure-cooked epiphany. There is a beauty in this slowness, an elegance in restraint. The paper remains blank not out of neglect, but out of respect. I don’t summon my ideas — they emerge. When they’re molten enough to burn the page.
It’s a peculiar curse, isn’t it? This sensation of being perpetually on the cusp. Like some eternal Etna within me, rumbling — tantalizing — but never quite spilling over. I sit at my desk, fingers poised, breath held. The cursor blinks like a star waiting for the first fall. And yet, I wait longer. Sip something tepid. Reorder a playlist. Ruminate. Simmer.
There’s a strange, unspoken science in all of this.
The alignment of neurons and metaphor and caffeine into something... cohesive.
But cohesion demands chaos first.
Just as obsidian demands rapid cooling, brilliance sometimes demands delay.
And sometimes, yes, the delay is the brilliance.
I once read that lava, when flowing under glaciers, creates the most bizarre formations—tubes and tunnels, delicate bridges made of fire and silence. And maybe that’s what I am, in these moments: architecture in progress. Not visible yet. But sculpting something, slowly, under ice.
It is in that silence — the hush before eruption — where the truest work happens.
So no, I’m not lazy. I am lava. I burn at my own tempo. I write only when I feel mythic
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