Discomfort in boredom

Scrolling. scrolling. scrolling.

I scrolled over my YouTube feed only to find that I’ve watched all of them. Been there. Saw that.

Oh look! New content… boring.

Scrolling. scrolling. scrolling.

I opened Facebook and found nothing.
I opened Twitter and saw nothing.
I opened Telegram and found nothing.

I have managed to fly myself over the wide open field of all my concerns by the wings of distractions that flap whenever I find something of interest. Now that I ran out of content to consume, the wings stopped flapping… and down I came falling onto the fields of my reality, my own boredom.

I find that in the pure state of boredom, there is true discomfort. That feeling of clawing yourself out of a deep hole for hours only to find that you’re nowhere near the end from where you started. That feeling of being conscious but being unable to move your body, neither a limb nor a finger. That feeling of suffocation when you run out of air in the deep underwater.

My boredom suffocates me. I’m in a rut; in a seemingly endless two-dimensional cycle of rinse and repeat, that upon realization is a three-dimensional spiral going down into further discontent and only awaiting eventual destruction.

That’s it. I’m done.

I guess I’ll be sleeping now.

Fin.

— P.S. This post is merely a raw vomitus of the bored mind that describes itself in this prose. No grammatical check, no proofreading, no literary perfuming.