The Frontline of Boredom

I’m here on the frontline of boredom.
I’m here for you friends.
Keeping tabs and listening for any rumbles down here.
To ensure you are not missing human innovation of any sort.
So far it's fine. Pretty quiet really.
I am sure to keep my ear to the...industrial carpet.

I’m here on the frontline of boredom.
Here by coincidence. Or would it be more aptly called chance? I don't believe I'm fulfilling my destiny, or conversely, am experiencing the result of an elegantly chosen, autonomous lifestyle.
I have researched different takes before, from great bored minds, thinking about themselves.
They say that boredom results from a lack of inner resources.
Or that it's the homeland of anger, before the revolution takes.
And though I don't disagree, I did expect it to say its piece by now.

But the task of being in boredom.
I want to give it a fair shake. I’ll get input.
And obsess. And weed the garden beds. I’ll get something mildly complete. Then retire.
Some days will stifle.

And one untouchable day, after I have wrapped up serving a hearty breakfast to a pack I call my very own, I intend to sit down and tell boredom's story. It’s a tale filled with hearts and blues. It’s filled with impromptu invitations, in lucky green. The daily goings-on, house to house, bedroom to bedroom, kitchen to kitchen, monitor to monitor, shaded in neon colors that just never quite pop. 

Out the window you can see stick-figured men, walking their dogs, sporting straight lines for mouths. In a Crayola color called seriousness. All sidewalks and interstate exits leading back to Monday. Carrying lode-bearing expectations sure to collapse. But what if I told you there's a way out from underneath? 

Let's pretend to be fungus. Let's breathe oxygen and cover ground. Let's connect and eat through the earth and discover some sun. Let's digest all the remnants of what has fallen short and convert them to sugar. Let's devour the rust resulting from legendary hellstorms of mediocrity. We'll make a salt compound from an acidic blend of compulsive coping behaviors and a respectable base of paid vacation days. We'll harvest imaginings, and dine on the earth with complimentary refills on water and sun. 

And surely, on that untouchable day, a few random seeds will scatter upon our digested traces and take. Seeds who are willing to chance it and strive for the purchase of something unrecognizable. Just give it more time and stop checking it every half hour? How much is a human half hour worth, do you think? About $40? Or are you one of those "can't put a value on time" people? I beg of you to pause and think about if that's an important question to you.

The probability is, boredom's story will take what feels like a long time that flew right on by. And the only way to tell it proper is to prepare my plot. Clear some litter of has beens and what wills. Shield myself from any jutting sensations of soon, and take comfort in the protective nature of scar tissue. Slowly marching forward, hurrah. Hurrah. 

We, who master boredom, are the slow and relentless. We process piece by piece. We remain exposed, and we connect in weakness and in strength. We fight. We rest. We feast. We excrete. We strive for the purchase of something unrecognizable, wearing straight lines for mouths.