A guide to surviving boredom

A @wakeupkitty. In response to your expedition.

It is interesting, the total painting. Surviving the day. Being part of the sofa. Turning on the TV just to have the remote nailed to your hand, like a remora with buttons, something you can light up and navigate, or whatever is necessary in a four-by-four space. Darkness must remain dim, chewing nuts or hundreds of potatoes, collecting potatoes with sweeteners, flavored with garlic.

Is boredom boring, or is it just another trained sad lesson? You can pose for a selfie, only if the phone allows a nostalgic and exhausted connection. Let’s not talk about suppliers, bad contracts, the stock market in free fall, and the dead. We have crosses in our yard.

The dog Tord, son of lightning and storm, already old, our faithful companion, could hunt pheasants, chase rabbits, or simply metamorphose among tapestries and old paint cans. You remember we have jars of jam, from the time of COVID. Fireflies kept fighting against the light, the cat was always on the chimney. And you painted wheat over the green of the walls. A beautiful wheat field faded into the horizon like an old reptile; surely we would have daisies at the end of the line.

Your hands were art, painting and restoring furniture. We could be on the sofa, muting the damn TV and counting the hours. Loneliness brings all the noise; it is an empty sound escaping through the windows. You wonder where everyone went.

I am bored. My only friend is still in trouble, in the middle of nowhere, sinking with an island that has stopped being supplied with oil. The Elise islands stop spinning. It sinks. Takes on water and returns to the caves. He can paint on stone, chew roots, grind plants and create an ochre color, or cultivate cochineal insects to extract an intense red.

He scrawls faces, gets lost in a sea of grays and blues. He tries to get bored, but time drags him; it looks like a storm dragging sand and crustaceans, already lifeless, perhaps extinct. He can make smoke with the sun and coconut branches. Here the brutal cold still remains; wolves are nothing but eyes torn from the night.

I could submerge myself in my darkness, give birth to new works, or visit Van Gogh before the next thaw, before the digital euro. My head is stuck to the ground, I have fallen, but I am not that fragile; it is only a sensation embedded in the minds of those who do not know me.

Even though I try to get bored deliberately, hundreds of pelicans return. I have counted 956. Some were born, others were hunted. But curiously they rub their feathers; they are pelican feathers, but fused with marble. They have become petrified as I walk on an expedition.

Image created by me, based on a prompt in chatGPT