The Unwritten Pages of My To-Do List

The Unwritten Pages of My To-Do List

There are things in life we plan to do “someday.” We keep them folded neatly in the corners of our minds, like unsent letters waiting for a proper address. I have my share of such letters — words I have yet to write, melodies I have yet to play, places I have yet to visit, and promises I have yet to keep to myself. These are not mere tasks; they are fragments of dreams deferred by the quiet tyranny of time, hesitation, and perhaps, a fear of imperfection.

For me, what I have been putting off is not a grand project or an impossible feat, but something deeply personal — the task of decluttering my inner world. There are notebooks filled with half-finished poems, drawers crammed with forgotten photographs, and a heart brimming with untold stories. Each of them whispers, “When will you find the courage to begin again?”

It’s not laziness that holds me back, but rather the illusion of the “right moment.” We humans are experts at waiting — for clarity, for stability, for the perfect alignment of stars. Yet, the more we wait, the more the clock mocks us. The truth is, there is no right time, only the present moment disguised as ordinary. The longer we postpone, the heavier our spirit becomes with the weight of the undone.

Philosophers have long warned us against this habit of postponement. Seneca once said, “While we are postponing, life speeds by.” And he was right. We live under the assumption that time is an infinite stream, but it is, in fact, a fragile droplet — evaporating even as we admire its reflection. Every delay becomes a small theft from our own lives.

And yet, there is hope in realisation. Each postponed act — whether it is writing that book, rekindling an old friendship, starting that morning walk, or forgiving ourselves for past mistakes — carries within it the seed of renewal. It waits patiently for our touch, ready to bloom again.

In the end, I have learnt that putting things off is not merely about procrastination; it is about fear — fear of judgment, failure, and even success. To act is to confront ourselves. To begin is to expose our vulnerabilities. But the most beautiful art, music, and change in the world have always emerged from vulnerability.

So perhaps it’s time to open those unsent letters, dust off those forgotten manuscripts, and take that first, trembling step. Because every act we have been postponing is, in truth, a quiet plea from our soul — a reminder that life is not measured by completed tasks, but by the courage to begin.

The clock may tick, the days may fade,
Dreams may rust where hopes were laid;
But one small step, one whispered start,
Can breathe new dawns into the heart.

Unwritten lines still call my name,
Their echoes soft, yet just the same;
For life’s true art, I’ve come to see,
Begins where fear says, “Let it be.”

So here I stand — no grand design,
Just faith that time will now be mine;
For every act I once delayed,
Shall bloom today — unafraid.