It’s an odd thing about boredom: the more bored you are, the more bored you become! The less you do, the less you want to do. Getting off your ass becomes unthinkable because you’re not thinking. Not-thinkable. Mental processes have become weighted down with some sort of sludge that makes the world around you seem fuzzy. Words you might think are formed in slow motion, like speaking Whale. Your eyes feel like they’re retreating inside your skull, creating a sensation of being sleepy. Energy has leaked out somewhere. Lethargy, languidness, languor, lassitude, listlessness. Awareness is dulled as though you are in some translucent membrane … or maybe it’s a cocoon spun around you as you force yourself to endure the empty space you’ve hollowed out around you, like the horror-movie spider webs that inevitably cover anything that doesn’t move.
You begin to procrastinate procrastinating, waiting for something to move that you can see vaguely from the corner of your eye. What you’re looking at is forced interest; or is it hope gone rogue, where it debilitates the motivation?
You know you need to move — even just a little movement — for a spark to ignite a semblance of vitality. Vitality, having to do with the animation of life. Vigor. Comatose but “awake” — conscious of not being conscious.
As soon as I get a spasm, that spark of vitality, to surprise me, I will jump at it. Like tripping into a lake of cold water, breaking out of my head into the present, I’ll emerge. I seem to be sure of it. So I’ll work out now. Or maybe I’ve run out of time. What to do until I’m actually forced to move.
Gotta not let myself get this way. It bums me out.
Filed under: Reflection |