Notes on Boredom

If there’s something that pushes to save myself from boredom it's the idea of a boredom itself in which I couldn’t bear to embrace at all. Some say it’s good; others do not. But one thing that really affects me is why boredom seems to be romantic to intellectual men. Nietzsche talks about it, moving half way through the realization of oneself and simply condemning it; Kierkegaard regales it as path towards existential emancipation; Lord Byron embraces it, Da Vinci kills it.  Which is which?

One thing I’m sure about: that boredom is innate and cannot be shaken off even when there is plenty of stuff to combat it. Write, read, sing or do whatever you want and boredom will still be a step behind you, knocking at your door humming, “just don’t ever stop, or I’ll come in." It’s an automaton that plays when someone stops doing something. How ironical isn’t it? You simply can’t deny it.

Perhaps by writing about it, I get to choke “him” a bit. Or, I’ll save myself by doing something even if it’s worth nothing.  And if it persists, pitty me!