The Legend of the Great Pause

In the beginning was the Word. But it was not spoken immediately.

First, the Creator looked into the Abyss for a long time. The Abyss looked back at him with mute reproach, hinting that the deadlines were burning. The Creator sighed, brewed himself some tea made of stardust, adjusted his pillow, and said: "Just five more minutes."

According to the apocrypha, the world was supposed to be created in one day. Instantly. A snap of the fingers — and done. But the Almighty was a perfectionist with the makings of a procrastinator.

On Monday, he created Light, but decided he would separate the Darkness tomorrow because "one needs to evaluate with a fresh eye."

On Tuesday, he created the Firmament, but decided to pour the water on Wednesday, since "the riverbed needs to be prepared."

By the seventh day, when the "Genesis 1.0" project was due according to the schedule, the Creator looked at the platypus, at the giraffe, and at how strangely the laws of quantum physics worked, and waved his hand.

— It'll do, — he decided. — And we'll fix the bugs in the process.

And he rested. Although evil tongues claim that he didn't rest, but simply zoned out, watching how funnily these little bipeds run around.

Thus, the great principle was laid into the foundation of the universe: "Do not put off until tomorrow what can be done the day after tomorrow."

Patron Saints of Procrastination

People mistakenly call it laziness. Fools! Laziness is the absence of action. Procrastination is an action directed at avoiding another action. It is the most complex internal labor.

There were many adepts of this cult in history.

Let us recall the Roman general Quintus Fabius Maximus, nicknamed Cunctator (The Delayer). Hannibal rushed around Italy, smashing legions and shouting: "Come out and fight, coward!" But Fabius sat on a hill, chewed grapes, and replied to messengers:

— Not now. Mercury is in retrograde. 

The Romans were angry. The Senate demanded blood. But Fabius was simply stalling for time. He stalled so virtuously that Hannibal ran out of elephants, provisions, and nerves. Rome was saved not by the valor of the sword, but by the valor of the couch.

Or Hamlet. The whole world considers him a tragic figure tormented by doubts. In reality, he was the Great Procrastinator. He had a simple task: avenge his uncle. A five-minute job — walk in and poke with a rapier. But Hamlet stretched it out for five acts! 

He came up with excuses: "need to stage a play," "need to talk to a skull," "need to upset mom." He put off the murder for so long that in the end, everyone died on their own, simply from the awkwardness of the situation.

The Doomsday Asteroid

And then the moment of Truth arrived. An Asteroid was flying toward Earth.

It was as huge as Mount Everest and as angry as a tax inspector. 

Scientists were tearing their hair out. The military aimed missiles but understood — it was useless. Mere hours remained until impact. Humanity froze in anticipation of the finale.

In the Mission Control Center sat a duty operator named Simon. It was Simon who had the red button. The very one that launched the experimental planetary shield. The chance was one in a million, but it existed.

The timer ticked: 00:05:00... 00:04:59...

The shift supervisor yelled into his ear:

— Simon! Push it! We're all going to die!

Simon looked at the button. Then at the screen. Then at his unfinished coffee.

— Just a sec, — said Simon. — Just need to finish the level. The boss here is tough.

 — Have you lost your mind?! — squealed the general. — The asteroid is entering the atmosphere!

— There's time, — Simon noted philosophically. — Fuss destroys karma. I'll just finish playing now, wash my hands, and press it. Remember the motto? Do not put off until tomorrow what can be done... well, you know.

The Asteroid roared with flame. It already saw oceans, cities, terrified people. It anticipated the explosion that would split the planet in half. It was the embodiment of inevitability.

But then the Asteroid fell into thought. "Why now?" — flashed through its stony head. — "If I fall now, I'll explode, and that's it. End of career. I will exist no more. But if I fly past, make a loop around the Sun, look at Saturn... The rings are beautiful there. And I'll always have time to crash. In a couple of million years. Where are they going to go?"

The law of cosmic resonance worked. Simon's procrastination virus infected the celestial body.

The Asteroid slightly swayed its "hip," grazed the atmosphere, leaving a beautiful fiery trail, and went for a second lap. A long lap. For about fifty million years.

Silence reigned in the MCC. — You... you knew? — whispered the general, looking at Simon like a deity. Simon yawned, scratched his belly, and finally pressed the button. The shield deployed in the empty sky.

— Better late than on time, — he said. — And now we can have lunch.

The world survived. Simply because the End of the World was decided to be rescheduled to a more convenient date.