On Boredom
(Posted this on Facebook too. It's not good enough to read twice.)
I am bored. I have been in this state for a majority of the summer, but not continually; occasionally, exciting and fulfilling events, like spending time with friends, break up any "streak" of boredom I might have. I am currently on the fourth day of such a streak; as the person I hang out with the most in Clarksville is out of town for the next week or so, it is possible that the current streak of boredom will extend a few more days, at least. I'd like to spend a bit of my seemingly infinite time examining boredom itself. I am going to riff on boredom for a while. God, if thou art merciful, take me.
To me, boredom is not simply the state of doing nothing or having nothing to do. During the past semester, for instance, there would be several days where I had nothing to do, and likewise did nothing; however, I was not bored, because I had likely just gotten through a considerable amount of classwork or an exam period. During these lulls in action, I would reflect on all that I had recently accomplished, and take comfort in the fact that there was nothing on the immediate horizon that would compel me to work; at the same time, I was not suffocated (bored, if you will) by the downtime, since I knew that soon I would have more to do. Lying on my bed and listening to foggy progressive rock albums for hours was relaxation; to be more specific, I was achieving relaxation. In the summer, when I lie on my bed and listen to foggy progressive rock albums for hours, it is not right to say that I am achieving relaxation, or anything at all, since I have no recent accomplishments to speak of, nor any plans on the horizon about which I may get excited. No, my subconscious does not say to me, "You have earned this! Listen to Genesis and take your hard-earned rest." It speaks to me much more ominously: "This album is nearly forty years old. Go the fuck outside."
And I have gone the fuck outside. Gone the fuck outside, friends, to find that I can accomplish the same amount of nothing whilst being twenty degrees warmer. I have no reason to do nothing; I have video games, I have books, I have a computer, I have my own reasonably creative brain. Surely I can entertain myself through one of these mediums? However, this is one of the largest and shiniest facets of boredom; being bored somehow transforms those things which one enjoys and turns them into ugly things, things that will provide a brief moment of enjoyment before the sufferer realizes that boredom will return as soon as the device is shut off, the book is closed, the poem is finished. Indeed, the knowledge that one is amusing one's self as an escape from boredom transforms the means of amusement into the selfsame boredom! It is a cycle, though I hesitate to call it vicious; slow, plodding, but inexorable, tauntingly apathetic.
A preliminary definition: Boredom is the state in which one not only does nothing, but desires to do nothing on the assumption that whatever one chooses to do will soon become boring, leaving one at one's original position with naught but fewer alternatives.
Boredom is relentless. It does not go away on its own; it grows stronger with every moment of inaction, more inescapable with every wasted pastime, more excruciating with every existential crisis. I am currently reading Brave New World, and boredom is causing me to think crazy thoughts, to consider the titular society a paradise in which one is never bored. Boredom is mind-closing, it is soul-crushing; it is the enemy of creation, it is the antithesis of motivation; it is a damnable parasite, latching onto youthful exuberance and whimsy and destroying it utterly. (I saw my old baseball bat in my closet and had an idea of going to the batting cages; for a reason that now escapes me, I didn't.)
I know boredom, but I can't quite put my finger on where it comes from. A lack of activity is a requisite; perhaps a lack of future plans is another. But might it be possible that those requirements pertain only to me? Why, certain religions advocate this very inactivity, this very freedom from future obligation! Am I not able to simply be? Perhaps not; perhaps I have always accomplished things, done something, so that the idea of doing nothing (and the prospect of not doing anything) is a hopeless (boring) one.
That is who I am, I suppose. I fancy myself a budding mathematician, and my job (succinctly) is to make progress on and finish proofs. It is not to let the beauty and wonder and intricacy of mathematics flow through my soul; appreciation may at times be a pleasant side-effect, but it is never my sole focus (should it be?). I cannot look at a proposition and be content with how beautiful it may seem; I must know whether it is true, and I must make progress toward and achieve that truth. In fact, I say that any philosophy in which the acquisition (by reasonable means; ask me) and dissemination of truth is not the primary objective is a meaningless one. What else is there, but truth? What else are we, as human beings, to do, other than hunt truth down with big-assed Science Guns and fucking kill it and take it home and give it to everyone so that we may be sated by the truthiness of it all?
I've got to be missing something.
I am bored. I have been in this state for a majority of the summer, but not continually; occasionally, exciting and fulfilling events, like spending time with friends, break up any "streak" of boredom I might have. I am currently on the fourth day of such a streak; as the person I hang out with the most in Clarksville is out of town for the next week or so, it is possible that the current streak of boredom will extend a few more days, at least. I'd like to spend a bit of my seemingly infinite time examining boredom itself. I am going to riff on boredom for a while. God, if thou art merciful, take me.
To me, boredom is not simply the state of doing nothing or having nothing to do. During the past semester, for instance, there would be several days where I had nothing to do, and likewise did nothing; however, I was not bored, because I had likely just gotten through a considerable amount of classwork or an exam period. During these lulls in action, I would reflect on all that I had recently accomplished, and take comfort in the fact that there was nothing on the immediate horizon that would compel me to work; at the same time, I was not suffocated (bored, if you will) by the downtime, since I knew that soon I would have more to do. Lying on my bed and listening to foggy progressive rock albums for hours was relaxation; to be more specific, I was achieving relaxation. In the summer, when I lie on my bed and listen to foggy progressive rock albums for hours, it is not right to say that I am achieving relaxation, or anything at all, since I have no recent accomplishments to speak of, nor any plans on the horizon about which I may get excited. No, my subconscious does not say to me, "You have earned this! Listen to Genesis and take your hard-earned rest." It speaks to me much more ominously: "This album is nearly forty years old. Go the fuck outside."
And I have gone the fuck outside. Gone the fuck outside, friends, to find that I can accomplish the same amount of nothing whilst being twenty degrees warmer. I have no reason to do nothing; I have video games, I have books, I have a computer, I have my own reasonably creative brain. Surely I can entertain myself through one of these mediums? However, this is one of the largest and shiniest facets of boredom; being bored somehow transforms those things which one enjoys and turns them into ugly things, things that will provide a brief moment of enjoyment before the sufferer realizes that boredom will return as soon as the device is shut off, the book is closed, the poem is finished. Indeed, the knowledge that one is amusing one's self as an escape from boredom transforms the means of amusement into the selfsame boredom! It is a cycle, though I hesitate to call it vicious; slow, plodding, but inexorable, tauntingly apathetic.
A preliminary definition: Boredom is the state in which one not only does nothing, but desires to do nothing on the assumption that whatever one chooses to do will soon become boring, leaving one at one's original position with naught but fewer alternatives.
Boredom is relentless. It does not go away on its own; it grows stronger with every moment of inaction, more inescapable with every wasted pastime, more excruciating with every existential crisis. I am currently reading Brave New World, and boredom is causing me to think crazy thoughts, to consider the titular society a paradise in which one is never bored. Boredom is mind-closing, it is soul-crushing; it is the enemy of creation, it is the antithesis of motivation; it is a damnable parasite, latching onto youthful exuberance and whimsy and destroying it utterly. (I saw my old baseball bat in my closet and had an idea of going to the batting cages; for a reason that now escapes me, I didn't.)
I know boredom, but I can't quite put my finger on where it comes from. A lack of activity is a requisite; perhaps a lack of future plans is another. But might it be possible that those requirements pertain only to me? Why, certain religions advocate this very inactivity, this very freedom from future obligation! Am I not able to simply be? Perhaps not; perhaps I have always accomplished things, done something, so that the idea of doing nothing (and the prospect of not doing anything) is a hopeless (boring) one.
That is who I am, I suppose. I fancy myself a budding mathematician, and my job (succinctly) is to make progress on and finish proofs. It is not to let the beauty and wonder and intricacy of mathematics flow through my soul; appreciation may at times be a pleasant side-effect, but it is never my sole focus (should it be?). I cannot look at a proposition and be content with how beautiful it may seem; I must know whether it is true, and I must make progress toward and achieve that truth. In fact, I say that any philosophy in which the acquisition (by reasonable means; ask me) and dissemination of truth is not the primary objective is a meaningless one. What else is there, but truth? What else are we, as human beings, to do, other than hunt truth down with big-assed Science Guns and fucking kill it and take it home and give it to everyone so that we may be sated by the truthiness of it all?
I've got to be missing something.