In the Throes of Boredom

And so it continues, the pang of summer heat not so strong that you rush for shelter in a nicely air conditioned room, but just enough to make you hide underneath the swiftly moving air of a ceiling fan. We find ourselves in the throes of a lazy night with nothing to do but eavesdrop on our fellow man going about his business. When it is our own life we find it so boring and singular, but when it is another's it is exciting, full of vitality. Take the first day of school, for example. For every child it is the thing they look forward to most, but the thing that they slowly develop a distaste for. Perhaps it is repetition that breeds hatred. So then we must ask ourselves should we refrain from doing that which we love most? Perhaps not since then we are left bored and alone. But forget about that let us return to the task at hand.

He is idling on his couch engrossed in the latest bestseller cooled by a gentle breeze that enters through a set of doors set just askew. He turns the page. We circle around to see the title, but it is really of no consequence. You see this man has read every bestseller there is. They line his shelves filling the emptiness from the house. We wander out from his present location to find a table of exquisite taste and quality, but not the slightest touch of wear. As we continue through the house, which is lighted with the dim glow of the full moon we find possession after possession that has been left untouched except by someone (certainly not this man) who dusted it. We return to find our present muse departed giving us a perfect view of the now vacant chair. In a house of pleasantries it is the only possession that has seen use. It appears out of place in its present state, but here comes its statesman.

He ambles back from the bathroom, but his face carries a grimace. You can see a twinge of gray in his mustache and much more in his hair. His hair, however, is ample and rests in such a fashion as to make it appear to be a wig, but it is not. We know; for the observer knows all and that which is not known is left to the imagination. He finds himself struggling to find comfort in a chair that has done him years of service. He loosens his shirt and closes the windows in favor of artificial cooling. Soon we find him, a lump of a man beads of sweat trickling down his face wearing nothing but the minimal. Still he fails to find comfort. He shakes it off and returns to his imagination once again lost in his book. He is a sell out reading best sellers. He reads intensely searching for comfort in the comfort of others, companionship in the solace of others, passion from the apathy of others. He lives in the "them," not in the I. He is lost, forever wandering through fiction in search of reality.

He is awakened from his vegetative state by a twinge. He grips gently, tenderly with his meaty fingers at his chest. He struggles for breath as the the sweat seems to pour down his face. he reaches for the telephone he grabs it as he crumbles to the ground. He had been a statue crafted by skilled hand, but was weathered by life and now he lay broken on a plush carpet that seemed to be stained with the blood of a thousand men. We stare down at him motionless and wonder. When will they find him? We take joy in his death, a dramatic turn of events in our story. This is entertainment we have been looking for. Let us call the police...or did he do t hat already? We wait patiently. In the distance we hear sirens. Ahh, perhaps he is saved. They rush in breaking down the door trying to feed life into a place where it has been lost for years. He did not die this evening. No he has been a dead man walking, going through the motions.

He was lost. So we leave in search for another muse. Finding none we return to our solitary lives once again in the throes of boredom with our existence forever searching through the catalogues of lives to find one that fits our fancy to try and take on as our own.