The Art of Wasting My Time Everyday

Every day, I waste time.

Not in the way people usually mean it. I don’t sit scrolling endlessly through social media or binge-watch shows on autopilot (well… not every day). My kind of time-wasting is quieter. It’s the kind that wears the disguise of productivity—writing articles, reading stories, and falling into poems like open windows on days when I should be somewhere else.

I write. I start with purpose: an article I think might help someone, a reflection I hope might resonate. I set out with structure and intent. But somewhere along the way, the structure loosens, the intent fades, and I find myself lost in rewrites, metaphors, and tangents that have no clear end. The article might get finished—or it might sit in my drafts folder for weeks, untouched and unloved. But for those hours, I’m in it. I’m working, but not really working. Creating, but not quite completing.

Then comes the reading. Poems that break my heart in a single line. Stories that feel like old friends whispering secrets. I read to understand, to feel, to learn something—about the world, about others, about myself. But mostly, I read because I can’t not read. It’s a habit, an addiction, a quiet rebellion against the rush of the day. A chapter turns into two. A short poem becomes a deep dive into an entire collection. The time slips by, unnoticed.

Is this a waste? Maybe.

But here’s what I’ve come to realize: not all wasted time is truly wasted. Some of it is planting seeds. Quietly, without pressure. Some of it is refueling the soul. Some of it, I think, is necessary—especially for those of us who create, who live partly in our heads and wholly in our words.

So yes, I waste time. But I’ve stopped apologizing for it.

If writing calms me, if reading restores me, if stories help me escape and poems help me feel—then maybe wasting time like this is the most meaningful thing I do all day.