I am consumed too often by boredom, residing now in a great yawning giant’s gut. Like the pit of an apricot, I snuggle into layers of fatty flesh, content for now to be inert. To be the eight ball untouched. To be the husk of not what once was, but rather of what will soon be: a harbinger of action, a foreshadowing of a grandiose scheme that has yet to unfold. The problem, of course, is that inaction becomes the norm. I live with a status quo of zero, the only expectation a complete lack of expectation. As if to do nothing at all should be considerably commendable, as if the dice in the air should remain forever aloft and never land on a single number, no choice made, no fate achieved. Just the constancy of incomplete longing, the nagging feeling that you live on the edge, teetering against gravity’s lust, while remaining too perfectly poised on that strange, motionless precipice.
I want nothing more than to plummet or back away, to crash-land or soar into clouds, to make up my mind already. But I’m too comfortable at the crossroads. I have made a home for myself at every fork in the road, as if one could live forever without ever truly growing up. That’s the name we give indecision: Neverland. A place we’re not really supposed to visit, only in dreams perhaps, and yet here I have built an entire civilization upon this terra forma of adolescence, molded for myself the culture of indecision. We even have our own music, which is the crescendo of any symphony that must sustain fermata forever, a build-up without sufficient conclusion. We have too our own dance, which is the moment one leaps into the air and never lands. We have too our own language, full of umms and errs and ahhs without proper words, speech that signifies nothing more than a lack of meaning.
That’s what it means to be bored, no? To lack meaning, perhaps. To be perpetually on the threshold of creating a meaning for oneself. To fail again and again in that foolish endeavor.