I decide to write a poem about things I could never get
bored with, before realising that everything, eventually, becomes boring (just
imagine playing them on a loop): children’s laughter, sunsets, summer
afternoons, thunderstorms, disorientation, fear, and public executions (among
other things; I can’t list them all as I would spend the rest of my life
writing just this one piece, and that would become boring long before I reached
the end). Boredom is simply the second law of thermodynamics applied to
personal experience, where the idea of ‘interesting’ disintegrates. The act of
creating new things – music, art, poetry – might be the exception.
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