I am bored.
And I don’t mean that in a I-have-free-time-on-my-hands-all-of-a-sudden-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it sort of way. I mean that I am bored on a deep, existential level. I mean that I am bored and there is nothing that I can think of that will cut through that, not fully. Not completely. Not for long. A video game or a writing session or a conversation might delay the boredom for a little bit, might hold it at bay, but it always comes back, always intense, all-encompassing, devouring.
I am bored and nothing that I can think to do will end that. I am bored and that boredom finds ways to creep into everything.
It nestles into the conversations that I hear people having, laying just between their words, just as subtext. “Don’t these tomatoes look delicious?” “My kid might have an ear infection and I need to take her to the doctor.” “Did you want to hang out and go to the mall and-” and god, is this all there is? Am I really forced to trudge through eighty fucking years of tomatoes and children and malls? When is something supposed to happen already? Will it happen? Is life really just eighty years of sitting around and waiting for something to happen and then you die and… and then what? What the fuck is the point of all this? Why am I fucking here?
So I stop listening, I retreat into my own head, and then I feel awful because if there is some fucking point (and I’m sure there is; I’m sure I’m just missing it) then I don’t know if I’m going to find it there. I don’t know where I’m going to find it. In my writing? My writing is a part of me, an extension of my personality, the physical, tangible embodiment of my soul and my soul is fucking dying here. How can my writing exist if I’m so bored? How can I find meaning there if I can’t find meaning anywhere? So somewhere else then… maybe the point is somewhere else, maybe the point is in success, in a career. So I’ll do that then. I’ll apply to jobs and I’ll submit to agents and I’ll- god, but it all just takes so fucking long, and I know I need to persevere and I need to keep trying, but persevering is not always an active verb, and what is supposed to fill the time in between? A person? Am I supposed to find meaning in someone else? That’s what all the songs say, I guess – love is the greatest thing in this whole goddamn world, but what if you’re not good at that? What if you don’t know how to talk to people or open up or even really care? What if you’ve never done it before and you’re not just rusty, you’re the fucking Tin Man from the beginning of Wizard of Oz – immobile, stuck, waiting for someone to come along and make things change, and what if you’re suspicious when someone does come along? What do you do then?
Nothing, I guess. I guess you just stand there and wait for eighty fucking years for things to change.