Symposium of Boredom

....Now, while this isn't poetry, it is written in a format for entertainment. I do hope you take a look, at one of my brief short stories.


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                There isn't really a rule about boredom. No line so fine or debonair. It just appears. Brightly, gaily, greyly, as if the world itself has lost its color.

                The people it inflicts, with this sense, burn and age infinitely, but only in this spare moment. The oddity of these moments, while subtle, shows the true personalities of the people coping with this brief affliction. The rash, and unwise, urging to move, to explore, rise up and are agitated, while the truly old, in the moments of boredom, reflect upon their lives, find inspiration in the unique feeling, and are held in the silence by the urge to sleep.

                 Boredom finds the oddest things in people. From destruction, mayhem, and unruliness, to bone-wrenching  tiredness and depression. Boredom truly is the strangest illness I've ever faced. It is chronic, and untreatable, rends in waves, and in the rarest of moments, the stillness of boredom even kills.

                 Aye, even boredom kills, killing in the most supremely subtle of manners. The pervading sense of it, even briefly, turns full, grown men, and women, into the deadest of zombies. To others, boredom itself causes no harm. Instead, it brings the person's pains with it. Sorrow, depression, tiredness, and morality. The sheer crushing power of which can end a life. But still, with the pains, and horrors boredom brings, it also brings with it, light.

                Hope springs eternal, even boredom doesn't crush this fact. Instead, even with boredom, the writer's creativity flashes, with the feeling itself in their brain. The flavors, the colors, the madness, all boredom brings, transformed into art. Of the word, and the brush, of the pencil, and the pen, boredom brings it all. Even in the crushing apathy, boredom brings those translators of beauty something special.

                But…through it all…the boredom prevails. Nothing can stop it. Nothing can prevent it. Not even the melancholy, and the rage, and the sorrow. No happiness springs eternal. No luck is overfilling. Nothing is permanent, not even the scores of death. And I wish this wouldn’t be, but nothing is, and ever will be, as permanent, (in our minds that is), as our sense of boredom is, in that brief moment of time, of boredom.

ISA