I wish you could’ve seen the way I rolled out of bed this morning.

I was scrolling on Instagram, fully knowing I could be doing more with my time, when BOOM, the dreaded video that somehow knows your life appeared on my feed. First sentence: “Don’t leave anything for later.”

I instantly arose.
Word to Jesus.

I had be got. And you know what, these things don’t usually work on me. But this week “later,” had become a personal nemesis that kept showing up. The cadence I’d spent the last ten days building got reset. and just like that “Later” became a threat that kept winning.

So today I’m paying the kick forward, straight into your inbox.

Before we rumble, let me introduce myself. My name’s Josiah Hyacinth, and I’m the editor of this little space here called The Stack. It’s day 16 of challenge myself and a growing crew around the world devoted ourselves to, to produce for 75 days straight. This is my daily entry, a column exploring creativity, ideas, and the messy art of getting started again. It’s really my passive aggressive thoughts to the world, with the occasion gif.

let’s tussle.

Remember When We Were Kids…

I grew up with a different alarm.

Born in Nigeria. Lagos to be exact. We were taught to wake when the cock crowed. Taught is generous. It was unavoidable. In Lagos it is a dream to rest without interruption.

I loved that place with everything. My fondest memories were often scored by the city’s endless song. When Silence came, it would feel like a rumour, and all would draw close to observe. Some mornings the streets would hold it’s breath, and so to breathe before the next song. And the rooster, the choir master would step on stage, begin his song, and again the city would sing its song.

It wasn’t rare for neighbours to keep chickens. As you can imagine, with a city fuelled by rice and stew, these wonderful creatures were a service to the nation. I called them God’s own alarm clock.

With their gravel-throated timbre, the day would announce itself, and that became the bar. And if you were hungry to win, you’d even rise before the crow.

If you permit me to wander this morning, I want to take you back home for a moment. I chuckle because I am experiencing in real time what well paced preparation does. I feel so eager to write vibrantly because I feel on time. For me, later is right now.

Now, picture the symphony of a Lagos morning; the thick, humid air, fragrant with fresh herbs, petrol and audacity. The birds warming the room like the gentle strokes of a violin. The keke napeps, start their engine, the gentle hum builds. The opera begins.

The cock, stretching his neck, readying his baton, the song spills out. Like Beethoven-Quinta sinfonia, all instruments come to play.

He commands the day.

The curtain of yesterday rises, the sun breaks through, the chorus finds its key. The symphony has gathered herself. Alas, the day we had dreaded begins.

That was what the mornings felt like.
I smile in remembrance.

The Symphony of Now.

I never did understand my parents and their covenant with dawn until I moved to the UK, where four in the afternoon can feel like a full stop. With evening arriving like an uninvited guest. The lakes of possibility shrink to puddles. Perhaps they knew that when there is still light outside, the mind finds room.

It is like a pilot staring down a runway that keeps unfolding. Choices are kinder. Courage travels easier, and landing feels softer.

Twenty-odd years later, if you asked me what I know now, I would tell you this: like the streets of Lagos, we are all just making sounds. Our creativity is skin stretched tight across the drum. Our thoughts tremble, our ideas hum, and Someone, not us, holds the sticks and keeps the time.

Our input, is but a lended hand. Our song, just a small part of a wonderful orchestra. Before out small librettos, a larger story is already unfolding.

I’ve come to learn that the best of us appears when our rhythm is right. You know that moment when ideas stream through the mind in quick bursts, rivers of images gushing through. That clarity where our input cannot keep up with what has already arrived in the mind.

So I wonder, could we be kinder to ourselves. Could we allow for better timing. Could we lengthen our runways. Could we listen more carefully to the hum inside. Could we hold ourselves close enough that our very presence might invite a beat, and could we be sincere enough to simply repeat.

This, for me, is the heart of now and not later. It is the decision to give yourself a clean landing on a longer strip of day. To let enjoyment rise from attention, and let peace fall upon expectation.

After all, if planes land more easily on clear runways, why then do we crave such turbulence.

My gentle request today is that you allow your outbursts to rewrite your day. That you allow the gentle nudge to change your direction. That you respond now to the thing moving in your mind, so that there, in that noon light, you may find your pulse again.

So today’s Stack, we show up soft but certain that within the faithful, ancient symphony of life we may find our own songs, and be courageous enough to let the world hear.

Today was meant to be brief. I assure you I had every desire to keep it so. But today my song demanded more.

So i’ll leave you with the words that shook me awake this morning:

Now close this page with care, and do something. I’d suggest starting with yesterday’s later.

Love J.

✳️ The Stack.

Part of the 75-Day Stack Challenge, essays for builders, makers, and doers, finding their start again.

Written by Josiah Hyacinth, creator, strategist, and storyteller exploring the intersection of faith, creativity, and action. Follow along as we unpack what it means to build, become, and begin again.