Unluckybolte
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Laziness will Kill Your Dreams
Hamza always talked about becoming a graphic designer. Every friend who sat with him for more than ten minutes heard about it — the big projects he'd design one day, the clients he'd work with, the freedom he'd finally have. He even bought a course online, paid for it with his own saved money, excited and proud of himself for finally starting.
He watched the first two lessons the same night he bought it. Then came a small thought — "I'll finish the rest tomorrow, I'm tired today." Tomorrow came, and so did the same tired feeling. A week passed. Then a month. The course sat there, untouched, buried somewhere in his laptop folders.
Meanwhile, his cousin Bilal, who barely spoke about his own plans, had quietly picked up the exact same kind of course around the same time. Bilal wasn't more talented than Hamza. He wasn't smarter either. But every single day, even on days he didn't feel like it, he opened his laptop for just thirty minutes and practiced something small — one shape, one poster, one simple design.
A year later, Hamza was still talking about becoming a designer. Bilal already was one. He had a small folder of real projects, two paying clients, and a growing confidence in his own work. Hamza saw one of Bilal's designs on Instagram one evening and felt something twist in his chest. Not anger, exactly. More like regret mixed with disbelief. "I started before him," he thought. "How did he get so far ahead?"
The truth was simple, even if it stung to admit. Hamza had the dream. Bilal had the discipline. And in the space between wanting something and actually doing something about it every single day, an entire year had quietly slipped away from Hamza's hands.
That night, Hamza opened his old course folder again. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment, half expecting the same tired excuse to show up like it always did. This time, he pushed past it and clicked play on lesson three. It felt strange after so long, almost embarrassing. But something had shifted in him. He wasn't going to let another year vanish the same way this one had.
Dreams don't die because they were impossible. Most of the time, they die quietly, one skipped day at a time, until the person holding them wakes up one morning and realizes the dream is still exactly where they left it — untouched, unfinished, and slowly turning into regret.
Hamza always talked about becoming a graphic designer. Every friend who sat with him for more than ten minutes heard about it — the big projects he'd design one day, the clients he'd work with, the freedom he'd finally have. He even bought a course online, paid for it with his own saved money, excited and proud of himself for finally starting.
He watched the first two lessons the same night he bought it. Then came a small thought — "I'll finish the rest tomorrow, I'm tired today." Tomorrow came, and so did the same tired feeling. A week passed. Then a month. The course sat there, untouched, buried somewhere in his laptop folders.
Meanwhile, his cousin Bilal, who barely spoke about his own plans, had quietly picked up the exact same kind of course around the same time. Bilal wasn't more talented than Hamza. He wasn't smarter either. But every single day, even on days he didn't feel like it, he opened his laptop for just thirty minutes and practiced something small — one shape, one poster, one simple design.
A year later, Hamza was still talking about becoming a designer. Bilal already was one. He had a small folder of real projects, two paying clients, and a growing confidence in his own work. Hamza saw one of Bilal's designs on Instagram one evening and felt something twist in his chest. Not anger, exactly. More like regret mixed with disbelief. "I started before him," he thought. "How did he get so far ahead?"
The truth was simple, even if it stung to admit. Hamza had the dream. Bilal had the discipline. And in the space between wanting something and actually doing something about it every single day, an entire year had quietly slipped away from Hamza's hands.
That night, Hamza opened his old course folder again. His hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment, half expecting the same tired excuse to show up like it always did. This time, he pushed past it and clicked play on lesson three. It felt strange after so long, almost embarrassing. But something had shifted in him. He wasn't going to let another year vanish the same way this one had.
Dreams don't die because they were impossible. Most of the time, they die quietly, one skipped day at a time, until the person holding them wakes up one morning and realizes the dream is still exactly where they left it — untouched, unfinished, and slowly turning into regret.
% on things we are actually loving. Like writing, I love, similarly, programming the programmers love. You cannot make a programmer an inspirational or scenario based writer, vice versa for me.
