I've noticed something. I haven't written a journal in a while and I want to scrap the last one into the unsuccessful compost pile of previous journals that never managed to do much of nothing. And as it has been laying out for hmm...two months now, it probably smells fairly ripe with the stench of decaying words that is only held off by the art of other DA users.

You do not have to read this. There is no urgent news which I feel need to be expressed to onlookers in the bowels of the Internet. Nor do I particularly feel the immediate urge to supply you with stories and memories of my life simply so that you are further informed and you can walk around snugly in my shoes with the confidence of amiable understanding.

No.

I am writing for the sake of writing and taking up space and wasting gigabytes (Or whatever the proper amount of "bytes" would be that this would take up—I never did truly remember the exact number despite how many times my Dad has repeated it to me.) for my amusement and to stave off boredom. So no. None of this is important for you to read. If you have read this far into my babbling, I am amazed, but it is not necessary.  But I suppose I should be flattered regardless. Or worried, depending. The former is most preferable.

However, if you have grown bored of my rambling, you can always throw this into the hearth and never look back again. Because that is what I'm going to do from here out—if I haven't already; ramble. Typing whatever leaks from my mind and into my hands without much serious thought of what that might entail.

If you like this, great. If not, I don't care. This is merely so that I may express things that have no need to be physically spoken to those that already know, but want to be heard it in pretty strung up words rather than strained and knotted, stumbling syllables. And I am in the mood to pretend like I can be a writer—if not only for a brief moment—without having to write something, a novel or short story. Though, I suppose you can count this as a form of short story. If you squint at it maybe. And turn your head sideways, or upways, or downways, or other ways that might make this seem more than what it really is. Or perhaps not. I might need a stranger's eye to truly tell. Yet, since I have no eyes but my own, that will remain impossible until I am told otherwise.

But one again, hopefully it will be the former.

I'm trying to find something more to write about, because my boredom is creeping up on me once again and is clinging to me like a shadow. Though that is what it seems like more and more as time wears on.

Boredom.

That is a menacing thing to me.
It is always here and I am used to it's constant company, but I think that is what makes it so menacing.

It's something that likes to hover around me, always staying where I can just see it in the corner of my peripheral vision. Enough to know it is there, but not enough for me to know find it's weak spots to throw it off.

Those are on good days.

On bad days, it surrounds me so completely that I can't tell from where I begins and it ends. It holds with a sharp grip I can't shake .

I know, I am making it sound like I am falling into a depression of some sort, but no. That's not it. It's not even the boredom itself that bothers me truly.

It is what comes after that worries me.  

The way I see it, boredom is not some over-powering figure that one should fear. It is merely the tool, the weapon for havoc. The results of the use of this tool is what has me concerned.

Since I was a child, I always had this habit of staring into nothing. Of course, I am staring at something, but I am not truly seeing it. The image is there, it processes through my mind, briefly, quickly, and hardly noticed before the information is cataloged as either important or not and—depending on which—is tossed. There is a very limited amount of thoughts that filter through in those moments and those that do get through swim in front of vision languidly like I'm peering through the glass of an aquarium. I simply observe these thoughts, take in all it's colors and it's shape and it speed of which it swims then move onto the next one that passes by that takes my fancy—all previously harbored interest lost to the tide. And this continues on until my need for reality—like that of my need for oxygen— takes a firm squeeze on my lungs, forcing me to surface from whatever body of nothingness I was submerged in.

While one would think that for one that hates being bored, this sounds like a rather boring experience in and of itself. And it might be. However, whilst in this pool where nothing really seemed to exist, I feel numb. Not physically of course—as this is a state of mind, not a state of body— seeing as I could still feel things that bumped into me or tripped and fell over my temporarily paralyzed limbs. But it felt as if walls were built up and no emotion could get passed these barriers. All I could feel was this strange form of contentment. Though I fear that is not the proper description. Maybe it is something like that whilst meditating, where one must purge the mind of all thoughts and focus on inner peace—or something similar to that as that is the best of my understanding of it. I hope that is what I stumbled upon, for I fear it may be something else. I know I cannot call it an "out-of-body-experience"—as I have never actually left  my body for some other plane—and I hesitate to even play with the idea as I am too much a skeptic to take it into any serious consideration.

But as years passed, the longer it took for me to emerge from it's depths and the more frequent I would visit and the harder it was to leave.  And that unsettles something in me.

You see, I have a bit of a fear—that was never really brought into light until rather recently—that this constant boredom will drive me the edge of insanity someday if not assuaged. It is difficult at the best of times to keep it at bay and implausible at the worst of times. Dealing with this boredom is much like being a lion tamer. I attempt to use whatever tool of entertainment I had to keep it back, out of danger to me, and if I am focused and determined I succeed, practiced and experienced. But it lashes out. Claws ripping and tearing at the air trying to catch on something, bellowing in piercing noises that stun and confuse, and pouncing when I'm dazed or distracted.

Digressing, this fear of mine—it seems—has been leaving imprints in me. Imprints that are not really imprints at all but are really small infections that flare up and spread and—as the name implies—infects leaving a trail in it's wake.
It leaves evidence behind, but in such subtle ways that it can be excused as exhaustion or is underestimated as simple boredom. It is anything but simple.

I think of it as a sort of Rubik's cube. On the outside, with a single glance, it looks simple. Uncomplicated with only six different colors. But it's deceptive. It is complex, with so many color combinations that twist and turn that can leave a person speechless at how unfathomable all the ways to solve it are.  So many solutions, but none too obvious. At least to those that are not in the high reaches of intelligence for Rubik's cubes—I was never one whom could solve one, so it comes to no surprise that it'd be just as difficult to solve my problem of boredom.

And here I fell off into another tangent. That is a problem of mine, I'm afraid.

I don't know what to make of it sometimes. How to deal with this boredom. At the moment, I am not in the capabilities of running amok with a thousand and one plans and activities to keep me busy. And my creativity and talents in the visual arts has to wage war upon it for it do much of anything at times, but in the aftermath it sometimes saps ideas away leaving me short on motivation and even shorter on imagination.

Maybe this really is something to fear or perhaps it is just my own neuroses, but regardless rationality, it worries me still.

Perhaps—now that it is out there floating about in written words and not just strolling pieces of thought—it will soothe my worries some. Perhaps not.

But I will hold onto the hope that it does.

On another note that is completely unrelated:

You know what was a stupid idea? Jumping in the pool. That was a horrible idea. Positively terrible. Mind numbingly so—possibly in the literal sense—and I am not doing it again until I am absolutely 100% certain that my hair follicles will not freeze the instant I get into the water thus falling out and leaving me bald. Never mind the fact that it was 80-something degrees out . Never mind that my youngest sister pleaded to me with childish accents and insistent tugs. Never mind that my aunt encouraged it with hope that I would finally leave my room.

It was a horrible, terrible idea and nothing can persuade me otherwise.

I felt like I had jumped off a sinking cruise liner into the frigid northern most regions of the Atlantic with Leonardo DiCaprio and had to stay afloat a neon blue pool ball to prevent an immediate death of hypothermia. There was many a curse that flew from my mouth thereafter I jumped to my doom—several that were long and creative and others that were short and shorter on imagination—all of which made my sister laugh and giggle at my expense until her lips turned purple. I am surprised that my skin did not repel from body as soon as it touched the water. So, I shall refrain from this until it is either warmer or I feel the need to engage in another bout of stupidity. Hopefully it will be the former.