For a class long ago I once wrote about boredom. A small essay, wasn’t particularly worth much. In that essay I considered that those who are bored aren’t trying. They’re just not trying. With many actions and mode shifts one could swat away boredom, and so I internalized that after my submission. To not be bored. That, if I was, it was my fault and I could fix it and I will.
However the years passed I was sure to pass them not in boredom, although to run away from it instead made a ping-pong match between agony and ecstasy; chasing myself away from this deficiency of character within a bipolar field. Even if I was slipping into drug use I was better than those who would whine about boredom and do nothing to solve it. Now, as I paint this mindset it reveals a stupidity but the grounds still felt reasonable. Why pass life miserably when I could fix it in a jiffy?
Well, such efforts were rewarded through the natural conversation of emotion, and repeatedly I found myself burnt out trying to seek the best in things. In anguish after the highs; the ping pong’ing was real. It was a self-hypnosis that helped me through the years in terms of passing but not in terms of preparing for more. It was a complete backwards approach: sure, I could continue to entertain myself, but soon enough there won’t be anything left of me to entertain. That yes, sure, I could continue to not be bored, but it probably also means no longer being human. No matter how much I was passed back and forth I was still on the same ping-pong table.
It’s a subprime way to pass the time, running away from boredom without considering its presence. It’s settling. Here I am and upon reflection I am willing to admit there’s been a presence of boredom that haunts the periphery of everything. Through hypnosis I was able to blot it out in perception, but it is still there. It didn’t go away. My method found success in not being bored, but not removing boredom. Years packed with emotion, but emotion that I would label as pointless. For here we are, still empty-handed, probably unto the grave, but also empty-minded, something that could be changed.
Once I wiped away the window splotch blocking that presence of boredom I am flooded with my reality: I am bored. I am bored of the internet. I am bored of people. And I am bored of myself and my actions. I’m bored of how I continue to ignore it and almost defend how it’s not the objects that are boring, but the subject, myself, that I’m not seeing something. This encourages me to sink further until I am beside myself. Of what use is this line of thinking? Well, with it employed I could continually justify spending time on useless platforms and boring activities and suck up the day searching for redeeming qualities in unclickable people. And sure, I was successful, if the aim was to not be bored. But again, I am here and feel as though I was just deluding myself. It was all for nothing.
Sometimes it sincerely is a deficiency of character that causes someone to be bored, that it’s on you. But it’s probably better to stick with humanity and say, “Yes, I’m bored, this sucks” because it’s not about whether you match the object, but rather if the object matches you. And by exercising that right to say “I’m bored” one also starts the wheels toward genuinely removing boredom.
So I suppose it is important to remember that you can always ignore things, but just because you no longer see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And that it’s important to pay respects to boredom, because by acknowledging it, it carries its answer too. For sitting and tending to your courier, boredom will unravel the scroll which is blank. That it’s not the next activity that’ll be your salvation, or the previous known activities that’ll be your salvation. It’s whether or not you’re willing to take the first step in your mind or within a new skilled domain; a courage to venture into the unknown.
