I write these words from boredom.
Where they lead to, I know not.
All I know, is that I write from boredom.
Some say boredom is an opportunity to be creative.
Others find that statement manipulative.

Boredom finds a way to make me yawn, and strikes when I least expect.
I always wonder when it will hit next.
I'm lucky when it leaves, and pray that is does not return.

Boredom isn’t what we think it is, not an opportunity, not a cage, not an adventure, not a fading bruise.
It’s an unexplainable phenomenon.

Boredom is what keeps me from leaving bed, on a cloudy, Monday afternoon.
Boredom makes me blindly stare, and makes me whisper even when I’m alone.
Boredom isn’t something, nor the lack of it.

It’s a grey canvas.
Theres something different about the nothingness, it’s not like it used to be.
Yet, it’s not much different, is it?