I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have something to do. I’m either working or reading or scheming or writing or walking my awful, awful dogs.
A lot of times I’m cleaning up our loft. It feels like a prequel to Fight Club, I’m the narrator and my life is polishing modern furniture. At least until I make a decision to commit to some sort of absurdly violent underground men’s cult.
My phone allows me to consume media at all times. If I’m riding my bike, I’m listening to a book. If I’m waiting for a table, I’m arguing on Facebook. I’m getting a face full of stimulation at all times. I think this is bad.
Last weekend I was going through old journals and was surprised to see a rhythm to them I hadn’t noticed. I’d write about how bored I was, about how nothing was going on. There’s pages of this nonsense. But then there would be the action.
Boredom would give way to some extreme orgy of decadence (though never an actual orgy). It was as if the wildness needed the apathetic rest to build. Adventure had to be sought.
It still does. But now I have this electric pacifier. It’s in my hands now, I’m using it to write these words.
Although I don’t imagine ever getting into surfing (I hate being in water and am not a strong swimmer), I do hope to become obsessed by something again before I die.
Early on it was horror movies. Then it was playing games like Dungeons & Dragons. Once I figured out how to leverage my modest qualities, it was girls. Then it was scooters, which I used to meet girls.
It’s good to be obsessed. It’s the only way to master something. To be clear, this blog writing is not part of the path to mastery. It’s masturbatory. But it serves it’s purpose. It stokes the fire and keeps the mental engine lubed. Which is something.
At least I’m not bored.