I’m writing this blog post because I’m bored and I bet most of us are bored to a certain extent, if not perennially. If it weren’t for the subversive effects of boredom, nobody would do anything in this world. We’d put the arms down, gather in a circle and watch the bonfire as it blazes then withers, and then contemplate the clusters of stars as they present themselves to our un-bored eyes, a dream that’s a bit too dreamy for this reality. If it weren’t for boredom, there wouldn’t be a World War 2, gossiping or anything, for that matter. What I’m getting at is that we do all of this because we’re bored and the whole of humanity has been cast into a boring loop of repetitiveness.
But what about those rare instances when you embrace the boredom and tell yourself that it’s okay to be bored because that’s just a price you pay for existence. A hefty price for a speck of dust. A lengthy conversation about a meretricious subject. I don’t care for all of that, I think existence is by and large, a happy accident, a sad one for the suicidal people, a neutral one for the stoic folks and blah blah blah.
Sometimes, you just need to write because what else can you do with a bleak imagination? As you grow older, you get the idea why some just choose to tune out, to press the pause button and indulge in some specious activities just to keep their sanity on the leash. I used to think nothing truly matters but now I believe it. It could be that I’m wrong, as I so often am, but please, I feel entitled to believe my take on this is THE take on this and what entitles me to this opinion is my own individual tomb.
Whenever I see a crowd of people gathered in a mall or some public space, I think to myself , ”Ugh I wanna leave right now”. What triggers such a response in an otherwise healthy female isn’t just an absolute sense of introversion, it’s also this unease within her that impedes any enjoyment of the human species, when encountered up close. I’d rather just read about people doing things than actually do things myself, this is as visceral as it will ever get for me.
I think depression is a cliché and most depressed people just want to die because in reality, anyone who’s truly aware of the sheer cruelty and depravity of the human race would logically want to off themselves. But what if death isn’t at all what it’s touted to be? What if it’s actually, kind of scary? I mean I know this is what most people think and that’s how every religion gets to play them like a fiddle, but what if it’s not just bye-bye consciousness? What if it’s like, worse than life? Depressed people, think about that for a minute. I think I might have saved some lives here.
I feel drawn to unexplored territories. The vastness of Mars and its gloomy crimson atmosphere. The icy world of Neptune and the desolation it entails. The deepest point of the ocean and the strange, moribund, almost zombie-like creatures inhabiting it. Because a new, empty world is bereft of all the elements that made this world the cesspit that it is.