Boredom's Unrelenting Grip
Boredom is my hell. Not the mild, polite boredom people confess to over coffee, but a living thing—an animal with teeth—that gnaws at my brain day and night. It does not wait for permission. It is there when I wake, already working and it lies beside me when I try to sleep, breathing hotly, impatiently. I am told that others grow bored in intervals like a weather pattern. For me it is the climate itself. Even at its lowest, it hums—an electrical irritation under the skin. To quiet it, I must scatter myself. I read while writing, speak while thinking, plan while moving, learn while exhausting my body. I stack actions the way a desperate man stacks furniture against a door. And still it presses in. Still it finds gaps. Nothing cures it. Everything only postpones it. The mind masters a task, and mastery poisons it. Repetition dulls the blade. What once promised relief becomes another irritant, another failure, another proof that the world cannot keep up with my hunger. I abandon things no...