This is a piece I wrote yesterday depicting the sheer boredom I was feeling so if you find it weird don't be afraid to comment on it. Private Time I’m sitting here waiting, Waiting for Yesterdays’ Number to materialize on my receiver. In the meantime I work, Even if I have nothing to do. I am a work machine. I can manufacture assignments, Create problems to solve. I don’t bother shutting down, Because my brain would Succumb to boredom. I jot endless manuscripts on Innumerable sheets of paper. I solve equations, break riddles and Contemplate the meaning of Everything. The sun can melt anything, Even the day itself making it ooze over its’ Temporal boundaries into the next one. Soon Time becomes like Buddha, Changing, yet remaining perfectly still. I wish I were Buddha. I can melt like Time, but I’m also restless. I try to ride the liquefied minutes by staring into The vast electromagnetic wasteland. I then repeat my mantra: “See? My life could be worse” Of course I’m right. Though it’s a bitter pill to swallow In this “good life” I feel like I’ve run out of prayers for God. In want of nothing, what can I possibly say? I’m selfish in a way. I don’t want boredom yet I long for excitement. I only find excitement, In those mad manuscripts that I create. I can measure success in stains of black graphite. The more that coats my hand, the more I have achieved. This is why I love the night. It’s like being covered in triumph. But I will wait until Yesterday rings.
