What hurts more?

I am weak, tired of my own excuses. The baseboards are full of fine white chalk from sanding patches, I know I should have taped them-up first. The artwork leans upon the dusty, empty walls as footpaths are showing gently past. I am tired of the sun-shapes, those brightly scripted, garishly twisted, distortions of my windows and blinds on the livingroom walls that I have never seen before taking the pictures down. I alone, of course, anticipated my finishing the painting of these walls long ago, but have managed to almost fall in love with the mottled differences of the white primed patches, the dust smears or of the existing white paint. Why do I do this to myself? Was it really that bad, what with the holes and the marks and the just ugly, old, dirty white walls? Would it make that much of a difference to display all the art work over new Slake white walls? Give me strength, give me want, please, give me more than I deserve. I am not sure what hurts more, pain or procrastination?