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It's 9 o'clock in the morning on a Friday that, like the other days of the week, has been washed out. It's been raining since Monday and it hasn't stopped, it just varied in intensity. I haven't seen a blue sky for 5 days and it seems that this will continue for a while. The cyclone season has started, and on this occasion it has been punctual.
Everything smells musty. Houses, even the best and most well-kept, leak somewhere, the clothes you wash never quite dry, and the sun has been sent on vacation for a few days to God only knows where. What began as a blessing for the plants is surely becoming fed up, and some are just overwhelmed.
12 hours and a lot of nothing later.
It's 9 something at night. I listen to Mer de Noms, the first album of the band A Perfect Circle, and I realize that I have a half-written post on a browser window. I read it, and as if it had been a forecast I check its predictions.
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It kept raining, and indeed one of my plants has drowned from so much water, which makes me wonder if one could like her, drown and die from what he most longs for, from what he most aspires to, and I think of Jim Carrey and others who have affirmed that the success they longed for so much in the end disappointed them, because it did not bring them happiness.
Jim Carrey, like others before him, took refuge in art, painting in this case, but there are other less fortunate cases who are now in the other world, whatever it may be, because they couldn't stand this fraud they bet on life.
No idea why I think about this, maybe because of the uncertainty and volatility of the moment. We live what could well be the script of a science fiction story, with a war in Europe and outbreaks of Covid-19 in Asia.
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But despite this, we took to the streets fed up with the boredom that all this time has given us, certainly enough to recognize the shit in which we live as a consumer society, sunk up to the neck in economic and social inequality that in many countries It's pretty much the norm.
Maybe I think about this because my boredom resists being asleep, numb, anesthetized by Netflix series, stupid videos of people dancing on Tik Tok or content creators taking advantage of the latest drama of the moment to generate clicks on YouTube.
My boredom is different and it rebels, and it won't let me write something absurd, something meaningless to kill time with, something to fulfill my purpose of publishing something new on HIVE, whatever, today when I don't I have nothing previously written to share.
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My boredom is different because I am a writer, which does not mean that I am good or outstanding, it means that for me writing is an expression of myself, an escape, an exploration, an outlet, both now and in the morning, 12 hours ago, when I only seek to escape, not feel, not think.
But my boredom doesn't let me escape, it doesn't let me ignore my concern for my role in this caricature of reality in which we live now, a grotesque caricature that doesn't ask you if you want to participate, and puts you in the cast without asking your permission. I'll try not to end up at the bottom of the list of extras... I recommend you do the same.
©bonzopoe, 2022.
Thank you very much for reading this post and dedicating a moment of your time. Until next time and remember to leave a comment.
