I'm the one who suffers from boredom.
An anonymous username
appearing on a forum.

Lurking for answers,
knowing that I should be wary,
for if I stumble long enough
through these bits of consciousness
I encounter,
I may forget what I even asked for.

Links lead to links,
information in chunks,
like little kicks to the heart.
Everytime I uncover something new,
I stand uncovered before it as well.

A hermit,
unburdened,
by the words
and those who've heard them.
I turn the pages,
try to learn,
really earn it.

Disarmed,
I bask,
ambivalent,
at the world's elusive beauty.
It overpowers me.

Reluctant, yet curious,
I let it speak out to me and hook me in.

I let it tamper with my senses.

I let it find my boiling point.

I evaporate.

I begin merging with it,
giving in completely,
letting it uncover itself to me

...and devour me.

The dream,
so fulfilling,
yet empty at its core.
It leaves me wanting more, of course.

Its imperfection.
A fervid hunger it awakens within me.
Completely sore, I feel it leading me astray.

I appear as if I've pleasantly sunk into contemplation,
as though it has been revealed to me
that the rationale I keep under my sleeve
is not enough to help me sail freely
through these incorporeal waters of creation.

The shore may seem stil,
but the electric currents
raging in the deep ends of the water,
are always eager to stir up trouble.

A rash movement on the dashboard.
Going overboard
with fantasies of what the beyond could hold,
the need to hold this hole,
this portal to someone's soul,
often leading to a sole space
where one feels they could truly afford
to lose control.

I'd like to imagine this 'hole'
as a torn down place,
where ideas could be exchanged,
where passion could become airborne
so it can travel and reform
through points of view...

...and with each wall torn down by the exchange, you are reshaping yourself.

Shifting.

As you see that life itself shifts.

Co-creating with what is creating you.

Understanding that it's a two-way process.

Remembering those words
from an artist of old,
'Everything you can imagine is real.'.

The very essence laid out without resistance.

Bliss in a void so bliss-less.

The breath of new life
given to the dusty corners of my mind,
creating me, I know,
just by reaching in and yanking out
what I'd been holding in all along.

A story unfolding within the psyche,
a story that if it were to be described,
the aftertaste it would leave would remind
of the scent of wine and roses.

It's obvious my inner sights are rose-colored.
Romantic...
Hopeless?
No.

And yet,
when the world calls out to me,
tempting me to escape from life itself,
figuratively,
I take note of the rushing water,
a sound that's filling the background,
a reminder,
that all of the life that surrounds me,
whether virtual,
imagined,
or stunningly present

...is the dream itself.

I see this state is not a wayward journey.
It's more like coming home.

I plunge towards the depths,
accepting my fate,
knowing that the hum of the world
will always follow me,
always like a tiny switch
on the lower left corner of my heart,
patiently waiting for me to turn on the lights.

When I'm ready.

When I can.

It's undemanding, as it's timeless,
and it's merely keeping the door unlocked
for me.