Boredom is a cracked wall. Each fork splinters down from the corner above my bed, ever threatening to push its boundaries. It never does. It rests idle, teasing a glimpse of what lies beyond, utterly contemptuous of my desire to yearn for something forever out of reach. If only it would crack further then my barricade may falter. I imagine it sway as the loosened chunks of concrete spill around me. I kick and hear a snap as it finally gives way. Drenched in dust and smothered in stone I smile. Another vista at last. I wipe my face and open my eyes hoping to see a new world beyond my cage. Like sand pouring through my fingers, the dream fades to slip away as the eternal crack sneers down at me with its crooked grin. No matter which way I toss or turn it remains, motionless, there. Always there.
Boredom is a locked door. No key can open it from this divide. An unbreakable glass-panelled flap awaits a pair of intrusive eyes that arrive alongside heavy footsteps. In a place where time means nothing and everything that flap opens like clockwork. It is my timepiece, my wristwatch having been wrestled from me an age before. That and the jangle. The slap of boots always accompanies the mash of metal as their custodian marches to bring a moment of reprieve to some lucky soul. When they coincide with the rumble in the pit of my gut I know it is nearly noon. If the sun is waning then the tea trolley has arrived, a paltry three hours later. On alternate afternoons they bring one hour of less constriction and the chance to speak out loud without fear of ridicule. When that cold door slams shut and the rustle of keys dims then I return to my standard state. Comatose, I struggle to stare at the flap for the next evidence of life in the grave that suffocates me.
Boredom is a barricaded window. What can I see when my desire for sight has been removed from me? I do not wish to glimpse into the hollow of others’ existence. Their dark presence only amplifies the despair housing this mortal shell. Smoke billows through their steel bars like the furnaces of Hades. My hands wrap around the poles in my own confines and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the adjoining glass. What I see makes me reel. The man cast from society’s protective wing no longer exists. Instead, a stranger has fallen in his place. He is battered and beaten but the bruises do not show on his skin. Slowly, he crawls to face what the grubby glass confirms once more. Who is this man whose sharp, purposeful features have withered to sag and droop? I am trapped with him, this old man on whom the vengeful gavel of time has fallen. I yearn for a companion but grow tired of him quickly. The wrinkled grey skin of my hands is shared with us both as is the roughness of cheeks and mottled brow. His smell revolts me. I try to placate him with nicotine and tablets but it is only when I sleep that I am free.
Boredom is the bloody box. What monster invented a device that can both provide joy and hate in equal measure? The screen dominates all within its glare. I am drawn to it like a babe to its mother breast, feeding my soul with whatever milk it decides to issue. The mornings are especially sour. Ravenous women vainly attempt to present relevant issues to the public, veiled within a cloak of entertainment. I am bombarded by quiz shows until evening then the soaps slip-on. When tempers rise or spirits fall my neighbours take to vocalize their frustrations. Yells that crisscross the courtyard destroy any hope of slumber. At precisely seven the roaring ceases as the Farm saga commences. Bliss ensues for too short a while. On occasion when the Reds or Blues are playing silence reigns. Until a goal. Suddenly the dead awakens as from the last trumpet call. Doors are stomped and beaten in harmony with the jubilation and for just a moment all are transported to the stands. Close walls cannot contain pride and joy as they burst to drown out all previous sorrow. Yet too soon time robs jubilation and the bloody box blares on.
Boredom is the same sad tale. Over and over the scene replays as I stand for the man in the wig. The dirty dozen then file in, heads down, shuffling. A verdict is passed like a Chinese whisper to the bench but will the truth follow? My breath is held and I count to ten. It takes less than three. Guilty is decreed. From the corner of my vision the blur of pen on paper as the press record with glee. Not a fact will be reported true so why bother being there? I am led down an abyss, my wrists tethered, to an awaiting dungeon. A bitter chill greets me as the iron lock is wrenched. Strength evaporates and my knees meet an unforgiving floor. My voice, so silent and useless, cries out; it is the wail of grief. Then anger floods through to dispel the winter in my veins. Where is justice? Where is innocence? Suddenly I become aware of the game that has been lost. My knights, so valiant in their promises, have been knocked off their steeds by the opposing queen. She destroyed my defence, killing one piece after another. Yet it is only now that I realize I was never the king, only a pawn on a board where winning and losing does not promote life, only ego. They will reset the players for another contest tomorrow and past losses are easily forgotten and discarded. I am no fun to them now. That game will only ever be replayed in my mind over and over and over again.
Boredom is boring.