A Dance with BoredomBy Oliver Kaufman

And where shall we go now? Now that the dew drops are all hung up upon the catacombs, and the willingness that seeps in through the windowsill now begets a sort of satisfactory urge to remember and converge upon a...

And yet, what of it? What of the way the sea spray wishes its way onto my forehead? What of the way that weeping willow bends, and brushes my cheek with its branches? What of the sun, as it shines up above, warming my face? What of all these things?

We shall not remember, nor shall we remember to forget, for all things that their way of coming to fruition. Ambition – does it not surprise you that one seeks to undo their undue lack of fortune, or to create an abundance of fortune, to fill the void of boredom in life? Ah, that mess of things, that expansive mess that waits for no one. For, who would wait for boredom? Ah yes, that thing, that thing which we all recognize, yet, it seems silly to be motivated by such a thing. Boredom – the impetus to stop staring at a wall, or to stop staring at the sky, or to stop laying on the ground, or...

Really though, countering boredom is just about getting up and doing something. Hah, that's the ticket – we do something! Then we won't be bored! Ah, but, the malaise sets in again when we consider... that it's just boredom doing this, not ourselves. Why, if we weren't bored, what would we do? If we could face boredom with all the armies of our consciousness, and sit there with it, and play its waiting game, then what might come to fruition? Not much, we might say, but all the same, while we sit bored, the world moves. While we sit bored, our body digests food, our heart pumps blood, and we age. Well, our bodies do, at least. What more there is, I don't know, but our body, it ages. Perhaps our thoughts don't age – perhaps they are bored in occupying just about the same space, constantly. Things changing in and around us, bustling about, but we, making no choices, sitting there, waiting, staying, not doing a damned thing. And why? Well, why not? Why not see what lies beyond the gate of boredom? Indeed, that is a tricky gate to cross, given how exciting it seems when one phrases the goal in such a way. “To pass through the gate” - ah, there is a worthy challenge, one worth our time! None of those boring challenges like...

Yes, indeed, we can get caught so easily by being motivated out of boredom. But if not boredom, then what? If we are bored, then we move to stop it. We move around, we change things, we put things that change in front of our eyes. Yes, TV is like this, and games too. Don't try to deny it – yes, in the mean time there might be meaning and substance in it, but an essential part of any medium is that we're not bored by it, and, if we are, that we stop it immediately. Why do something that bores us? That makes no sense. Better to be entertained, and to let entertainment do its work on us, to let images slide on by, from one thing to the next, to stop the hemorrhage of boredom. Who wants to bare boredom for that long? Indeed, there must be something very important at stake to do such a thing. Something much more important than boredom. But what could it be?

Oh, there are many things, let's not kid ourselves. Many, many things indeed. A threat to our safety or to one we love. Maybe we must endure something boring to overcome an obstacle, such as a lack of monetary funds. Maybe we allow ourselves to be bored because if we were to violate that boredom, we would be violating something more precious, something much less bearable to loss.

And what is it? Oh, I have already mentioned a few things. But let us name a few more. Or not. The task itself seems laborious, and I am in no mood to impede myself, to stop and wait for clear ideas to come to mind, especially when a handful of good ones are already right there for the taking. Or, for the considering. Yes, all these things... What were we talking about again? Oh, boredom.

Boredom, and distraction. Perhaps, sometimes, what we think of as more important than boredom... whatever that may be, we begin to doubt it, or maybe we doubted it all along. Maybe we don't really want to endure the boredom. But am I bored? Is distraction really out of boredom? Maybe bu it could also just be from...

No, what is it? My mental state flows onward. I s it not the mental state from which boredom flows? Or from which the thing begets the other thing begets the....

Oh, I'm not making sense again. Yes, time for a new paragraph, a new start, a refreshment, a new birth, so to speak. And from this new starting point, we can proceed, with, I daresay, a more open mind than what we had before. Vigilance, foresight, fore-seeing...

My body, indeed, grows tired. Or is it my mind? What is of all this? In the back of my mind, and now in the front, I wonder about what would happen to a man – or woman – who couldn't get bored. Really now, what would happen? And not that they would be entertained, but merely that they had the capacity to endure extremely boring situations. They might be rather dull company, no? The world might pass them by, entertained by neither their personality nor whatever it is they subjected themselves to. Someone like that might not be very entertaining themselves, for who, on being able to subject themselves to boredom, would want to go about entertaining others? Really, it would seem like an empty pursuit, when instead they could just teach others, were they willing, how to endure boredom. Hah, yes, indeed. Enduring boredom – what a curious and specific pursuit. Why would anyone bother with it, if not for some crucial reason? Perhaps for the challenge of it? A staring contest is like this, is it not? They stare and stare, but the first one who's had enough, and blinks, loses. The person capable of enduring boredom might be quite good at this game, though I suppose that endurance of pain would also be a factor. And what of it? Is it so extraordinary to endure boredom? It certainly doesn't make for forging an entertaining personality, except perhaps as a sideshow. Is it not a good quality to be able to spot ways to alleviate boredom, rather than to just endure it?

And yet, how bored would such a person really be? Oh, I doubt that they would be wholly invested. Indeed, somewhere inside such a person there must be voices crying out “please, stop it! Let's just do something fun, something exciting, or engaging! Not this boring stuff, please!” And who, that still retained their caring, could refuse? Those cries, would they not stir compassion, and bend the will to allow for distractions and frivolity? Why not break from a boring activity, if in doing so one could bring a little joy to a far-flung (or close-by) portion of one's own being? Is not the warmth of contentment a greater glow than the dull light of an obscure ambition?

Still, it is little wonder why some people might try it: for the challenge. And to be content with challenges is not such a difficult matter to achieve, for there is a kind of non-boring excitement in watching one's self perform feats of great skill, dexterity, and focus.

Ah, but, no matter. It's not like I'm going to bore myself anyway. How boring would that be? And yet, like one who seeks to overcome fear...

Even so, courage is only needed when there is more than one's emotional state at stake.I grow still now, and do not know where to go next. The words do not flow, they do not pour

out of me as water might from a pitcher. Is my pitcher empty? And yet, in observing my lack of flow, I once again flow. Curious, indeed, but it seems like a mere safety-measure to prevent me from spiraling into silence, again and again.

And here it is again. Silence. I must break it to speak of it. I must...Silence, again, this time before I even had the chance to complete my thought. And what of it?Again, a...Wherefore do I continue? It is a kind of mulish insistence that words continue to flow, and

indeed they can, depending on my approach. Surely, to simply force them out would be no flow at all, but constipation – pardon the imagery – but really, such force applied to such a blockage would be...

My hands, once again, grow still. The writing, ceases. Ah yes, the conceit of writing, it is there, too. It is there, along with all other things that are there. For in fiction, does one really create at all? Or rather, is the agreed-upon world just hidden, bringing forth the world that each one keeps hidden to themselves? Or rather, even if they don't hide it, it is nevertheless a hidden world, one each can see for themselves.

And what of it?

What will become of such a world? Ah – now I simply dwell in empty questions, seeking to fulfill my quota, and to finish an unfinished story. Ah, yes. Boredom – it was that topic that was begun, and so, there is somewhat of a conviction that has been stirred up to finish it. To finish boredom. To figure out, for once and all, what boredom is and what ought to be done about it, and what can be done about it. What innovative approaches could their be? Shall we seek to become as bored as possible, as a thrill-seeker seeks thrills? Ah, but no... No, no no no no no. We shall do no such things. No, no indeed, for a force seems to fight boredom, much the same way a force fights fear. Yes, for fear we seek safety, and for boredom we seek... now what would be the right word... distraction? No... excitement? No. Fun? Yes, perhaps fun. Or, perhaps engagement. An engaging experience. Indeed, something engaging seems preferable to something that elicits boredom, in a similar way to how something safe is better than something dangerous. And yet, dangerous things can fail to elicit feelings of fear, so what is it about boredom? Can a situation really be boring? No, that is a response, a feeling, and not the quality that bores us, really. Danger can easily scare us, but we can also bare danger quite well. No, perhaps a better word would be “disengaging”. Yes, a disengaging experience. Or rather, an experience that fails to engage us. And yet, is not engagement a choice? Why might we not choose to engage? Is it not because that thing, whatever it happens to be, doesn't seem worth our time? Or, maybe it seems unfair in a way, or, as one would be wont to put it, “stupid”. Yes, we might indeed say “that's stupid” to something that bores us, or more specifically what we would choose not to engage with. Why engage with something stupid, after all? Really, such a choice seems stupid, no? Or, at least not very sensical. And yet, what do we do then?

Well now, this is interesting indeed, thought I, this is interesting indeed. We now have an idea of what boredom is really all about. Maybe, really, it's a natural response to disengagement. And just like we could endanger ourselves, we could dwell in disengagement as well, although I think we would appear rather lifeless and drained. And so does that seem to suggest that life is about engagement? Well, in any case, we could disengage, fully, by choice. But, then, not only would we seem lifeless perhaps, but...

What was the thread again? I close my eyes and try to reconnect myself to it, the weaving falling apart in my hands. With memory, however, and focus, perhaps I could stitch it back together. Is this not, in a way, disengagement itself? Yet, I can reengage. I think this is important after all. Yet, perhaps not all of me does – perhaps part of me feels rest is more important to engage with, as I drift off towards slumber. Perhaps all of this is true. Perhaps none. No, now I am babbling again – putting words together, and phrases just because they sound pretty, and poetic, and nice. No no, we'll have none of that. Instead, instead we will continue on our way. Yes, continue, continue until the day – no, I'm doing it again – how easily I slip into rhyme! Sometimes, it seems that we do not choose to disengage at all – it just happens. But we can choose to direct ourselves back towards engagement. No need to slid down to the bottom of the slope – only a little way, then we can start making our way up again. Am I Sisyphus, in this way? Hah, is that the metaphor of that myth? Yes, perhaps he is naturally becoming disengaged, but then, on realizing this, he reengages himself. Yet this could not really be the total metaphor, because one can reach a point of engagement where the boulder is rolling easily in the direction you choose. “Let's get the ball rolling” they say – really, this is a call to engagement, is it not? Hah, yes. Yes yes yes. But what of it?

So, the ball is rolling, we are engaged, not bored. What then? Why is this better than disengagement? Danger, assuredly, makes sense, because it could endanger something valuable to us. Whatever we value could be taken away. Our life, for one, or perhaps our money, or time, or someone else's life, time, or money. Things wrapped up in our well-being could be put at risk, and it would be a lot of work to get them back, or even impossible. That is danger. And I suppose danger wouldn't seem so dangerous if we didn't care about the thing at risk, yes, indeed. But what about boredom? What of it? What is damaging about disengagement? Perhaps it is the lifelessness, sure, but why are we lifeless? It is sort of a drifting, a floating. We're not rolling along, but being rolled along instead. And what will we

be subjected to? But even if subjected to nothing, we are not putting ourselves to the test. Yes, perhaps that's the devilishness in disengagement. We would not like to have a set of tools that are not put to use, no? But then again, to feel obligated to use them is another pressure, and being strapped into the electrified chair of engagement could be, well, rather tiring. But disengagement provides an escape. Perhaps there is an issue of balance, here, and that having an open door between disengagement and engagement is the gift we can achieve for ourselves, if we find it. Yes, for to drift is a blessing, sometimes, when we wish to let the world pass by in its hurry, while we remain slow, and nearly still. And then, when refreshed, we go back to the world – perhaps engagement is a welcome experience as well. Yes, both are welcome, each in their own way, in their own time.

But what of boredom? I seem to have lost track of it. Perhaps this occurs when the door to engagement seems closed, and when we've had enough of disengagement. Yet, what might keep it closed? What forces work against us? Perhaps fear, for one, of going back out into the world. Maybe it's complacency, because we've gotten too used to this side of things. Perhaps the trial of the outer world, or engaged world, rather, have gotten to us. Perhaps, perhaps we'd just rather not deal with it. Perhaps engagement no longer appears fun. But, can it not be made fun? I would wager it can. Indeed...

Ah, here I go again, growing tired by the minute, and...No, I need not keep myself awake, for sleep, or rest, is perhaps what I am guided to with good,

unknown reason. But still, are there unfinished matters? Shall we talk of boredom more, and of the overcoming of obstacles to engagement, and re-opening that door? Well, perhaps it is enough that we see the door there, and see that there may be obstacles there. Yes, boredom indeed. One can dwell in boredom, but is that as worthy of a challenge as it would be to reopen the door to engagement? Perhaps it is one solution, after all, to simply engage with disengagement. Yes, hah, what a fanciful idea. But it seems sound, no? As one jumping headlong into a staring contest. Well, not with a literal headbutt, no, but... well, you know what I mean. To be lively in a place of stillness, to be engaged in silence, or rest.

Is then the goal to blot out disengagement? To fill its crevasses with engagement, as much as one can? I... think not. For as one's consciousness loses its grip, and we drift like a leaf to the forest floor, can that not be a comforting experience as well, and welcome, at times? We need not watch ourselves fall, but rather close our inner eyes at times, as calmness washes over us. We can be, without watching our being, after all, or without watching anything, really. Watching itself can rest, and indeed, that's what one component of bodily sleep seems to be. Who, looking at themselves in bed, could get themselves to go to sleep with a mind active with observations about how they are not going to sleep? “When are we going to sleep?” and “Really?? This is taking so long!” - these sorts of things... yes, these sorts of things just seem to indicate that the watcher is not resting, and that it is still engaged, still active. One who sleeps does not know the moment at which they pass into sleep, for they are not watching it, nor anything else. Watching subsides, and gives way to what is unwatched, but not necessarily unwarranted. For many are we, it seems who know well enough the justification of sleep, and who let their watcher subside. The animals know it, and we know it, even though we can force ourselves awake, and remain engaged with all manner of activities. And no matter the value of activities, still we let ourselves sleep. Still, the great pool of unwatched comfort subsumes us.

Yes... into the pool we go.But what are we when we don't watch ourselves? What indeed? For, we cannot see it, so how

can we know? And, once we do see it, then aren't we watching ourselves once more? Yet, many times in sleep, time has passed that has not gone accounted for, at least by our ability to account for things. We still existed, for we have memory of our existence before the gap, and have our experience after. But what of the in-between? Perhaps it is a minor detail, one we can skip over and forget about pursuing. But, still, what kind of experience is an unwatched one? At such times, we are not even in our dreams – even there we can watch ourselves, even if such events are oft forgotten. Perhaps there are other events, too, that are always forgotten? Those lapses between dreams, unknown, unremembered, unaccounted for, unwatched. Yet our bodies have survived through the gap, and our minds seem to

resume largely where they left off. Or, our thoughts rather. Who knows what the mind is, exactly. Who knows indeed.

Yet, I find myself retreating into silence. Yet, I cannot end it here! Just as we do not fall asleep on vagrant whims, but instead prepare ourselves and our bodies, so too do stories and thoughts and themes flow, and once their subject-matter has been worked through, there can be a break, or rather a conclusion. There, we can conclude. This was meant to be a short story, but what a story it is indeed! Ramblings on philosophy, on existence, on boredom, engagement, and the like... Oh yes. Yes, yes indeed. Although, “existence” may not have been the main topic. So what of it? What of all this? How shall this story end? Abruptly, with the falling off of my feelings, and along with a random one of my lapses into silence? Or, shall it end with a conclusion, or with a talk of conclusions, as I am working my way towards now? Or...

And what a story it is indeed!Hah, I could end it there – after all, I did not know what else to say, and it is easy to hide one's

ignorance behind the cover of genius. Yes, illusionists are good at this – and seek to dazzle, wow, and instill wonder in the audience before their show is done. They seek to leave them impressed, but without total understanding. Indeed, I could do the same, and with a flourish exit the stage. But what of it? Does it really leave the one who witnesses more enriched than another ending perhaps would? Yes, one can tickle one's self out of boredom with idle problems, with vagrant mysteries, but perhaps it would be a bit easier if the one delivering the mysteries was a bit more clear.

I do not know how to end this, nor if its appropriate ending should be here or soon. After all, perhaps flowing out of me is a river that shall take me and others who read to a new place of understanding, one I can just not see yet. And yet, perhaps it is best to have arcs to one's journey, and to allow one's self the power to wrap up an arc when one sees fit, rather than to remain engaged for the entire length of the arc, when that length is unknown. Instead, it seems that one could do mini-arcs, that end at the place of one's choosing, and from there... well, the larger arc would just take care of itself. Brief periods of engagement would continue along the arcing path till all within that larger arc was taken care of. For, taken care of one piece at a time, there would be one less piece to the larger arc, each time it was revisited, even if the total number still was left unknown. Even so, when one moves towards a destination that is an unknown distance away, one knows that one is still moving when one chooses to move. As long as one proceeds into the unknown, the space of unknown lessens, at least in the place where one investigates it. For, the unknown may expand in one area while it contracts in another, but there are always more unknowns to explore, no? Well, perhaps one can know everything, but at least forgetfulness is there, if one really did reach such a point. One must have replay value in this life, no? Or, perhaps such a concept is frustrating, and unfair. Yes, I can understand that. But not knowing what mysteries to explore next can be frustrating, too, or at least disquieting, and one can often be at such a point, and find one's self acting to un-disquiet themselves, and un-frustrate themselves. Yes, perhaps because they do not want to be bored, or to lack material to engage with. Yes, perhaps engagement is... well, we already know it is a good thing, no? Or, maybe not. Who can say, precisely. But one can re-engage, just as surely as one can feel disengaged. Yes, yes. One can go one's own way, or the way of the wind... one can go many ways, or no way in particular. Such it is.

And with that, I conclude. I shall be frank about it. This is my conclusion. For, having reasoned out the justification of mini-arcs, I seek that reprieve myself, the one that I have reasoned as both there and as a viable option. For, there is rest there, there is repose. And with that, there is a gentle relaxation, as continuance no longer remains an issue that one must press upon one's self, due to the seeming importance of what one is continuing, or the threat of a project left undone. Here, is the ending. I have announced it long enough. We may resume in other, new forms. But for now, these thoughts, this story ends. I am not being metaphorical, either. This is the ending of this story. It is done now. Well, it will be done, at least, after you finish reading this sentence.