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I was bored.

Boredom was not simply an unfortunate mood or an annoying state of mind but a crime for which it was necessary to interrogate oneself for the cause hiding somewhere deep inside knowing that it could not make itself invisible in the face of he who had no face but was the eye alone penetrating heedlessly through time and space so as to finalize your conviction for having shown yours here on earth the earth itself revolting and spitting you up as its refuse ready for examination.

A simple bad mood became cosmically significant as though the suffering of millions were somehow made worse by your having dared to suggest that you yourself might be in some sort of pain since that sort of pain was always already your due.

This same demand for absolute responsibility overrules whatever energy I have for finding a practical way to talk myself out of mere boredom because boredom is never a trifling thing as though somehow to be bored were to question the entire authoritative hierarchy in which parents were the divinely appointed guardians of their children and therefore never to be questioned and never to be informed that the life they had made for you was for one reason or another coming up short. I do not recall my boredom being an attempt to place blame but they were swift to point out that it was not only not their fault that I was bored and not god's fault that I was bored but completely my fault and what's more not simply inadmissable but completely outrageous in the most literal sense.

Even if I were the culprit in my own boredom it needn't have taken on such monstrous proportions and I do not understand to this day why my boredom angered them so. Against whom was admission of one's loose ends such a high blaspheme? And against what held so dearly? It sometimes seems to me that to find an answer to this question would unlock more than this particular quandary I find myself in whenever I get bored but also the primary process of whatever it is that keeps my head hung in shame.

Because boredom and shame are very much entangled but I do not know exactly how or why. That I should have been ashamed of myself was not necessarily the retort to I'm bored but in case I thought to mention that I was unhappy usually I was referred to some much unhappier situation that someone somewhere else might find themselves in and was I not ashamed for complaining about mine given how much worse this phantom sufferer had it?

It was almost as though by declaring my boredom I was questioning their right to their own.

I'll give you something to cry about is not so far from I will find something for you to do: both completely silence the expression of pain and make of it an especially shameful act.


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