The Summer I Was Bored

As a kid, time feels endless; days stretch wide, filled with promises of possibility. Boredom doesn’t truly exist; there’s always something to do so and always time to do it.

But at some point, time starts moving funny. You don’t notice it right away but all of a sudden, an entire summer has passed. Then you realize you didn’t do nearly half of the things you were hoping to do, and yet at the same time, so much has happened that you didn’t account for. And in between it all, there were entire days that dragged, stagnant with boredom.

How is this even possible? Is time moving faster, or are we just slowly losing touch of the whimsy that once kept days from bleeding into one another? 

I am bored. And yet, I have many hobbies and ideas that should inspire me. I am bored. And yet, I have many responsibilities and tasks that should motivate me. I am bored. And yet, I do not want to be bored.

Boredom, they say, has a purpose. It’s a nudge from the ego to get you to do something—anything—to avoid the stillness of the void of reflection. But sometimes that’s all it prompts you to do: literally nothing except sit you down with your thoughts, forcing you to wonder about the world, your place in it, and why you’re stuck in this loop.

I do not know the cure to this. Maybe it’s more meditation. Maybe it’s less weed.

Maybe the only cure to boredom is rediscovery of that inner child, the one who once saw possibility in everything. 

But I wouldn’t know. I’m too bored to look.