There's a monster in my book bag, stomach growling and eyes alert.
It grows pleased with each hour that ticks by, running away with the delicious taste of wasted time.
It feeds on my time, consuming my entire night, my life, taking up all aspects of my being.
To take a pen to its heart would be more effective than the sword, but altogether more challenging.
Its vanquish happens in intermittent streams, bursts of valiance and productivity, then the silent tapping of impatient feet in armor made of vain and thoughtless dreams.
We create our monsters, in essence, our lives not quite challenging enough with a literal foe to defeat.
We shape our monsters, give them life and soul in structure with new patterns to always confuse ourselves.
We are our own monsters in the classes we cram, the responsibilities we pile, the layers of duties pulverizing air to thin sheets.
It's hard to breath, hard to think, over the growling from our tapping feet, our chattery fingers, our smacking lips, those wandering eyes.
It's hard to plan and hard to realize the ultimate goal with a wandering brain that, fearing the eventual, allows the book bag to remain closed for another hour.