The boredom is always there.
I wake up, it’s there. I go to bed with it. I walk around and it follows me like a cloud tied to my back connected by some ethereal string that someone attached when I wasn’t looking. It happened one day and I don’t remember which one. I’m too bored to trace it back. It just happened and that’s all.
Life lost a certain mystery. Nothing surprises me. Nothing mystifies me. And if it does, it’s fleeting. The feeling is gone as quick as it came. Life has become white-noise. I’m static waiting for the final spark to quit out.
Some call this depression and I don’t really believe that. I’m sad to them. Not sad to me. I’m bored. Just bored. A movie stuck on pause, a terrible commercial that makes everyone change the channel.
The days go by.
There used to be things to look forward to. Meeting a soulmate, having children, dream job, whatever, but now it’s just nothing. I know it won’t please me. And I’m scared I’ll be a nuisance on someone. That should motivate me to change but I know it’s something that won’t satiate the emptiness. It’s just more distractions, more responsibility I’m not qualified to take on.
I look around at everyone and they seem to have it figured out. They got a compass or something when they were born and they know where to go.
People look to me to lead or follow and I shrug because what the fuck does that mean? What end goal are we trying to get to? What point is out there? What point is there in anything? What are we trying to do? And why are we all in such a rush to do it?
I think they know.
I think they know. I think they know the moment they stop it’s all over. This charade is done. Inertia keeps the demon of knowing at bay. They don’t want to realize their dance has been to the wrong song this whole time. They struggled in earnest for nothing.
Their lives are nothing. They amount to nothing. I believe in God but I’ll be some type of pissed off if when I die God takes me through my life and he focuses on all the stupid nothing days where nothing happened and nothing became nothing and how I handled those days poorly. Nothing days at work, nothing at home, nothing nowhere. We’re all born losers from nowhere waiting to die nowhere. Send me to hell. I dropped the ball I never caught.
H.P. Lovecraft realized the boredom and went to bed for four fucking years. Four fucking years. He woke up. Realized life was still meaningless. Went back to bed. But was too bored to stay asleep. So he wrote about a bored pantheon of celestial beings killing bored people in vain trying to unbored themselves. Or something.
Albert Camus called it the absurd. The curse of being a rational being in an irrational universe. The absurdity is the contrast.
But let’s be fucking real.
The only irrational shit going on here is the boredom we feel in a universe in perpetual and unpredictable chaos. The mere fact that boredom can exist is fucking absurd. We should be lit aflame with passion. Constantly burning and going. But we’re not. Most passion is forced. Most art is forced. Most interaction with anything is forced. This is probably forced.
We pretend we do things because…I don’t fucking know why we do things, but it’s definitely to delay and/or deny the boredom. We just stuff our lives filled to the brim with distractions until death fucks us into the grave. White noise until the T.V. Is shut off.
We wonder why people do heroin. Makes the boredom enjoyable.
There’s no point to this. I needed to fill the space. I’m 24. I’m never growing up.