Wondering about Work

How does it feel to be so unproductive, to meander, sleep and maunder about obvious nothings
To set an aim and not play the game and sulk away into sleep
To be the living embodiment of inertia, just a body of mass that refuses to plunge into work

How does it feel to compromise on one's under achievements
To be satiated with things being satisfactory
To not have the thirst and the unending vigour required to achieve the things that lie beyond
To be like a tepid water, dry and parched deep inside but lukewarm and content outside
Still, unmoving and unrelenting
Never willing to surrender
to the friendly clasp of routine and rigour


How does it feel to be okay with being mundane
A nobody in man kind's walk down memory lane
Wondering ever whether this body and mind can conjure up work
Work that will lead to surmounted benefits both for me and those around me
Will that day ever come, will I ever work and achieve the things I set my heart on ?

Why doesn't my heart pulse with the kind of joy that's required when I tread the path to my aim ?
Why do I passively behold the time ticking by and not play up my game ?
When will this misery of being lazy end and when will I rest after doing work that tires me to my bones and yet fires me up from within.