The best medicine is sometimes the bitterest. After years of leading a sedentary life, I can’t think of a more tedious activity than putting my book aside to stick my walrus head into a gym and sweat it out. But I’m told it’s important to take care of oneself, that it’s almost a moral obligation not only for one’s own well-being but also so as not to inconvenience or worry others. That’s why I’ve intended to dedicate this new year to doing what I least want to do…for my own good. And in my new role of curator of self-inflicted punishments, I find that the one that perplexes me most is boredom. Much ink has been spilled on the harmful effect that technology and its constant stimulation can have on the ability to concentrate and on memory, and even more on the concept of ennui or detailing the ideal conditions—solitude, ritual silence—that are conducive to artistic creation.
I imagine you won’t blame me if I spend a few more tears telling you about my commitment to boring myself daily, with the aim of reaching the second point I mentioned earlier, specifically: when that isolation and fertile silence become a wasteland of boredom.
It won’t surprise you that, like many people tied to the digital world by choice or necessity, I spend far too much time online. Moreover, with such a capricious government, there’s news—if you know where to look—of new atrocities, illegal invasions, and violations of the constitution every time we glance at our phones. It takes even more time to critically investigate why and how the U.S. has become the villain on the global stage. There isn’t enough time to live off doomscrolling, let alone the amount of non-educational trifles I waste my time on. In the end, I decided I should put my phone away at night, after work.
At first, I felt it would be impossible to carry out this new punishment. Human beings can justify anything. I thought about the virtue of being available, on call in case of an emergency. I thought about the news, the possibility of the world ending in nuclear war, and, above all, the value of my unnecessary exercise. Soon, I felt a pang of compassion for internet addicts and mystics immersed in the dark night of the soul. I felt the great spirit of creativity abandoning me, retreating and slipping away. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't write. John Berryman's words echoed in my mind: “[…] ‘Ever to confess you’re bored / means you have no / Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no / inner resources, because I am heavy bored.” (The Dream Songs p. 14). The first few days were difficult. The forbidden is always desired. And to exacerbate this battle against the temptation to pay attention to anything I found on YouTube, my inability to write even something mediocre made me doubt myself: Do I have anything worth saying?
Several days passed fighting temptation and doubt—days of being incredibly bored with a pen in my hand and my brand-new notebook blank. It wasn't until two weeks had gone by that I noticed the slightest change—the boredom began to transform from a preoccupation with a frustrated desire into an analysis of what bored me: the sound of the clock, the stillness, and my lack of inspiration. At some point, the boredom became reflection, a recognition of that magic of leisure that Neruda speaks of in his poem "To Be Silent": "perhaps to do nothing for once, / perhaps a great silence can / interrupt this sadness, / this never understanding each other" (p. 28). And although nothing new has been discovered in this brief note, I acknowledge, and it bears repeating, the importance of that silence/solitude/contemplation from which poetry is born. It is doubly necessary to recognize that it would be impossible to cultivate poems without the fertile experience of boredom.
A delightfully boring inspirational essay.