BOREDOM

BY TRENT CLERK

I often sit and wonder, alone in the dark, fully engrossed in what we fashion to be a blight to our
happiness. A predicament that is unequivocal in its magnitude, and its perceptive duration. I am of coarse
referring to what we commonly call boredom. Although, I no longer avoid the grasp of such an interloper
to my conscious. Presently, I am more apt to welcome him, than shudder at his arrival. It is a wall that is
breached, a pinnacle crossed, and the drums begin to beat, marking the assault on your mind. Boredom is
when you mind is at it's weakest, or maybe the part you are aware of consciously. When nothing is left to
fill the zaps of its capacitance, your brain takes over, and oh, the places it will take you. For, I believe this
is a vital place, a virtual Eden, where thought and imagination run free to explore the depravity of your
being. A place where the monuments of your conceptions crack and splinter each other in their consistent
clashing and smashing. A place, if properly visited, that will leave your perception, with the similar
properties of water, and your soul the likewise of steal. If you were to prick your finger, it would bleed till
the platelets of your blood dam your contusion. But if you prick your thought, the massive gore and flow
of this wound will never stop, and soon your essence would be encompassed by its current. Your soul,
entrenched to its neck, would be swiftly carried off in the river of fantastic dreams, never again to be
contemplated the way it was before.
Like the addict of the most exceedingly potent substances, I inject mil after mil of nothing into my
consciousness, promoting my stagnant inebriation. Unleashed from the structured reality of conscious
thought, the gray being initiates it search. It begins to disassemble every known symbol around its focus.
Pillows, cushions, plastic moldings, wood tables, electronics, and walls explode into their subordinate
components, and pause for a brief click....tick. Soon their composition begins to peal away and melt into
their particalized reality. Color fractures on its many fault lines, and continues till every shimmer
vaporizes into velvet undercoating of reality. The blackness alone is so audacious and robust it glaciates
the surface area of my spine, yet brands the coating of my skin with its affective sizzle. All that remains is
the feeble childish conglomeration of self, and his voices are trembling and small. To terrified to organize
a retreat, and to curious not to look, the soul stares wildly into the abysmal black nothing, from which it
came.
You have now effectively reached the threshold of Hell. To find what you seek, you must enter,
and the devil you will meet, most absolutely. In fact, as many as you have allowed yourself to create.
Each more infectious than the last, with a tongue twice as sweet, and bliss they offer, safety too. You must
now encounter the versions that hid in the creases of your minds shadow. Some of us will never evade
this prison, the walls too insurmountably high, and the rivers so depthlessly deep. They will spin forever,
dancing with their demons to their magnanimous silence, till the cold conclusion of reality seeps into the
limitations of their capillaries, and siphons the last of their morbidly madd spirit. Rendering them forever
lost, till life claims its restitution. However, to those random warriors of the will, there is a bounty to be
hoisted from the pit. Its caliber would minister gold to mere material, and diamonds to hard stones. Its
power can unravel the mystery of your apprehension to love, and its fraternal hate. Its consequence can
evaporate blame, and cement conviction. But in all this, I nor IT, can tell you what it is.
There is no word acute enough, or idea vast enough, that it should fathom such a concept. It is no
answer nor truth, but both in opposites, encased in an action, that must be acted. Only a blind will
courageous enough to skirt through the gates of Hell, and sit down to breakfast with the devil. A will set
to know the mind of Satan, and match his will with one's own, so that he may share a breath with God.
For in the simplest terms palatable to your soul. One can not taste heaven without first starving in hell.
There is no point of reference, that can be made unnormalized to your current standing, and no concept
ever spoken, shown, or acted can replace the experience of such a misery. To hear your soul twist and
rupture, from the continuous hostility of its combatants, and from its great and mangled chasms the purest
essences of understanding froth up and atomize, into clarity. Clarity that can only be reached along the
damned road of salvation. Clarity that can never be held only felt in the briefest of moments. Clarity that
can only be found, in the most dreadfully noble act of …..BOREDOM! It is not for everyone and maybe
not for anyone, Hell's ghost will always travel on your flesh, and the burn will never fade. But in this
world of chaos, labeled boxes, death, and taxes, you my find another sphere tucked in its fold. One where
chaos is but a balmy cloak, boxes containers for useless things, death a moment to savor, and taxes,
well.................................................