A Case of Boredom

Some time ago I discovered boredom. Or ra­ther, boredom discovered me, moving into my body like a happy para­­site. Soon boredom took over every­thing, ate at every action and activity, reading, talking, eating, even sleeping.

There was no knock at the door: Boredom Has Arrived. Instead, I noticed one day that nothing seemed worth saying. Not I love you, not I’m tired, not Time to get up. In my dreams there was silence: I was bored in sleep. I’d know I was bored in sleep because I’d wake up and have no energy to remember a dream. Before sitting up to turn off the alarm, I’d remember that I was bored, that there was no reason to wash and dress. For a few minutes my sense of obligation—go to work, you have so much work!—would battle my desire to stop moving, and the internal struggle itself would provide enough fuel to get me to the coffee machine, to the shower, to my toothbrush, to my clothes, comb, coffee cup, shoes. I’d start feeling bored again as soon as I touched my coat. Outside I would look at the street and the schoolchildren hopping along with their harried parents, forget the boredom for a second, and then remember again as I went down the steps and walked to the tree-lined corner of my subway station. I would wait on the platform, then find a seat on the always-empty G line, the only line that never touches the island of Manhattan. I knew that fact from when everything about my neighborhood and my job and my life was exciting. On the train I would hope I could take out my book from my messenger bag. If I managed it, if I decided to read rather than stare at the other passengers and contemplate my boredom, if I entered a different world during the half-hour commute, I would have a better day. If not, I would sit and look at the other passengers, amazed that they weren’t screaming from boredom.

When I exited the subway I would check my cell phone to see if “something” had “happened” while I was underground. This was the phrase my family used for emergencies. If no message icon appeared, I’d call my sister just in case.

I could hear the fear in her voice almost before she started speaking. “Has something happened?” she would say, tight and calm.

“No,” I would answer. “Nothing has happened.”

Bored unto Death

Our father was dying. As bored as I was living my everyday life, my father was more bored still in his struggle toward death. He had had a heart...