I can almost taste it. Yes, that's the overwhelming aspect of it. The sensation that, by process of elimination, that I can attach to my taste buds. It has to be (I think). Or at least, it provides with it, quite generously I might add, a sensation or feeling akin to taste - the taste of cold, bland and charred morsels of ill prepared food.
My hollowed out mind rings with the biting cold it creates within. I am talking about boredom.
Not the 'I don't know what to do now', 'I wish there was something fun to do' kind of boredom that easily brings with it a tremendous array of possible solutions - one need only get bored enough to seek them out. Besides, these last but a short while and are, in a manner of speaking, the children of the one lasting situation I am referring to.
I am bored with everything. And I mean everything. Not to sound hyperbolic, but life has for me become one distraction after another, not a pursuit of a dream or even happiness, but quite simply the avoidance of boredom.
And I have, during the liberal amounts of idle time I have acquired over the years, pondered over what could be the missing link - the one key aspect I'm over looking that could perchance get rid of this 'sickness' (for the lack of a better word).
No, it is not the 'idle time' that's causing this in the first place. Give me some credit here, would you? I would have noted that already. In fact, I did pursue that line of investigation and end up occupying myself for days at an end with 'work' of some kind or the other. But even during those times, all I felt was the boredom lying there flat underneath all the tasks and deadlines, ready to reveal itself at a moment's notice.
The fact that I was aware of this is surely proof enough of my failure to get rid of it with obvious labour.
No, I need a more permanent solution - if there is one. This is, in effect, not a problem created by time or the lack of it, but rather something that possesses my mind.
In my enquiries in to the recesses of my mind, I have observed various symptoms of this and also many signs that could account for my weak optimism in what the future might bring.
The world can be a pretty dull and dry playground for one pre occupied with thought. It holds much less wonder or sources of amusement. In a previous post, I explored the possibility whether this could be a result of my mind being closed to the potential the world around me holds. In a moment of uncharacteristic hope filled delusion, I even conceded to this failure on my part and concurred with the logical conclusion that I need only look for 'joy' to find it.
But I am wakeful now and I realise that I was myopic in my search for solutions and fit the evidence to prove a loose theory. It's not just joy that I lack, it's also the vast share of other emotions that drive one's life.
I admire those that can hold on to anger or sadness long enough to find some will to live from it but am myself incapable if this. I realize how ridiculous this might sound to someone, but the darker, stronger emotions to me are but visceral reactions to stuff and not lifelong scars that keep me motivated.
The only true reprieve from this state of blandness I have found over the years is human company. Something about not being alone for extended periods of time or maybe it's the rush of communicating with another mind, or maybe (and this is going to sound corny) just the relief from sharing the loads of thought that burden my mind.
In any way I look at it, this has been the only solution that seems to have lasted a while. But given my introversion, lack of social skills and possible insensitivity to emotions that I have inadvertently developed over the years, this answer always seems slightly out of my reach.
As I'm writing this, I also just had another epiphany - I understand finally why I can't appreciate poetry. All this while I reasoned it out as my love for clear thinking and unambiguous dialogue present only in prose. But now I see it's because I can't relate to what the words mean, what they try to show me, when presented as poetry.
So, in conclusion..
I sit here with these distractions, waiting for the moment when life will offer me something stunning - all the stuff the poets write about so eloquently - love, loss, anger..
Something to keep me moving, something to make this mechanical cycle of life, with its oiled iron wheels turning in tandem, stop in its track.
Something to make the whole episode which started 27 odd years ago worth remembering and worth irrationally holding on to in the end.
My hollowed out mind rings with the biting cold it creates within. I am talking about boredom.
Not the 'I don't know what to do now', 'I wish there was something fun to do' kind of boredom that easily brings with it a tremendous array of possible solutions - one need only get bored enough to seek them out. Besides, these last but a short while and are, in a manner of speaking, the children of the one lasting situation I am referring to.
I am bored with everything. And I mean everything. Not to sound hyperbolic, but life has for me become one distraction after another, not a pursuit of a dream or even happiness, but quite simply the avoidance of boredom.
And I have, during the liberal amounts of idle time I have acquired over the years, pondered over what could be the missing link - the one key aspect I'm over looking that could perchance get rid of this 'sickness' (for the lack of a better word).
No, it is not the 'idle time' that's causing this in the first place. Give me some credit here, would you? I would have noted that already. In fact, I did pursue that line of investigation and end up occupying myself for days at an end with 'work' of some kind or the other. But even during those times, all I felt was the boredom lying there flat underneath all the tasks and deadlines, ready to reveal itself at a moment's notice.
The fact that I was aware of this is surely proof enough of my failure to get rid of it with obvious labour.
No, I need a more permanent solution - if there is one. This is, in effect, not a problem created by time or the lack of it, but rather something that possesses my mind.
In my enquiries in to the recesses of my mind, I have observed various symptoms of this and also many signs that could account for my weak optimism in what the future might bring.
The world can be a pretty dull and dry playground for one pre occupied with thought. It holds much less wonder or sources of amusement. In a previous post, I explored the possibility whether this could be a result of my mind being closed to the potential the world around me holds. In a moment of uncharacteristic hope filled delusion, I even conceded to this failure on my part and concurred with the logical conclusion that I need only look for 'joy' to find it.
But I am wakeful now and I realise that I was myopic in my search for solutions and fit the evidence to prove a loose theory. It's not just joy that I lack, it's also the vast share of other emotions that drive one's life.
I admire those that can hold on to anger or sadness long enough to find some will to live from it but am myself incapable if this. I realize how ridiculous this might sound to someone, but the darker, stronger emotions to me are but visceral reactions to stuff and not lifelong scars that keep me motivated.
The only true reprieve from this state of blandness I have found over the years is human company. Something about not being alone for extended periods of time or maybe it's the rush of communicating with another mind, or maybe (and this is going to sound corny) just the relief from sharing the loads of thought that burden my mind.
In any way I look at it, this has been the only solution that seems to have lasted a while. But given my introversion, lack of social skills and possible insensitivity to emotions that I have inadvertently developed over the years, this answer always seems slightly out of my reach.
As I'm writing this, I also just had another epiphany - I understand finally why I can't appreciate poetry. All this while I reasoned it out as my love for clear thinking and unambiguous dialogue present only in prose. But now I see it's because I can't relate to what the words mean, what they try to show me, when presented as poetry.
So, in conclusion..
I sit here with these distractions, waiting for the moment when life will offer me something stunning - all the stuff the poets write about so eloquently - love, loss, anger..
Something to keep me moving, something to make this mechanical cycle of life, with its oiled iron wheels turning in tandem, stop in its track.
Something to make the whole episode which started 27 odd years ago worth remembering and worth irrationally holding on to in the end.
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