Boredom - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Boredom is that invitation for the brain to play, to let the self soak into a moment and see the richness in the minute subtlety life offers. So I let it in, allow my thoughts to float without direction, and soon enough they find paths to run down, new paths rather than the same old worries that can play over and over each day. That's when ideas come... and that's when boredom ends.
Darwin has been begging for sunshine. He's been cooped up with these old clocks that don't tick for too long. There are only so many games I can invent on these chequered tiles. And I can only train him while it's still fun. No boot camp for four year olds. Then I think of the old park and the trees, it's fall now, the leaves will be scarlets, golds and browns. I don't think he's ever even jumped on a crunchy leaf, perhaps in my zeal to protect him he'll just be shell shocked and unable to cope with open spaces as an adult. So I bend down to his level, his face now bares a nervous smile, he wants this so bad. I cave. The joy on his face is in polar opposition to the anxiety that flares in my innards. This is a dangerous way to entertain a child, but at the same time what is the value of life without knowing the simple beauty of a tree? I open his vault and pull out the next size jacket, God knows his other one won't fit anymore. He takes my hand, hopping on the spot with glee.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
Time flowed like cement. He checked his cell for the time. A minute had passed since he last checked an hour ago, or so it seemed. Sitting there with nothing to stare at but a wall with chipped cream paint was excruciatingly dull and there was no telling when he would be called. It was so pointless too. Go in, get your heart rate and blood pressure taken and go out. He began to drift into an unpleasant daydream or was it a paranoid fantasy? So hard to tell and he didn't care. It helped to pass the time and he wasn't one for entertaining himself with optimism. Better to be prepared.
The house feels emptier than a crypt. I can't just sit here watching the walls, no matter how prettily I've painted them. I need to see real people, talk and laugh. I have to hear their stories and jokes. They give me an energy I can't get any other way. I don't care for television much, but a good drama and tub of ice cream happens sometimes. So long as it's prerecorded and I can skip through the adverts, I'm happy. Life is precious, who's got time for all those commercials? I think they've had enough of my time since I was three. My time is a strict split between responsibilities and play. They both feed my soul, I need the loud and the quiet joys of life, a bit of peace with plenty of wild times mixed in.
I unlocked my phone for the 1000th time and sighed. Nyx was still passed out on my lap looking really uncomfortable, his legs stretched out on the other chair. I stared up at the TV. It was displaying soda commercials, wich made me even more thirsty and bored.
"So.Bored." I pace the lengh of the waiting room, my steps slowly slowing down. Nyx eyes me from his post on the other side of the room and rools his eyes. "Entertain yourself."
"I dunno, just do something."
"Eat something." He nods at the snack machine. I drag myself towards it, my stomach growling for food. After I got my snack, I sat back down, bored again.
Emma sat on the edge of he father's yacht, her back to the hot noon sunrays and feet dangling into the warmed summer waters. She kicked lazily at the swelling waves until they fell below her toes again while toying with the idea of swimming. It would be something to do, a break from the sweltering heat. Her head felt hot, the heat sinking into her black hair as efficiently as tarmac. She slid to her side and dangled her arm down to catch the briny water with her finger tips. The side of the boat was uncomfortably warm and so she sat. This far out the waves had no white crest, no foam spray, instead they rolled in lazy arcs like the back of a giant cobra. She got abruptly to her feet and without calling out a warning to her Dad, she dived right in. The sultry air was immediately replaced with the cool water of the ocean. Soon her lungs clamoured for air and she kicked for the top, quite unaware that the boat had moved...
The ants flow across the concrete like an oil spill from my Dad's old Chevy; marching as orderly as any army with a column to the food source and one back again. I should just be filled with wonder I guess, that these insignificant insects with mush for brains can accomplish this task but I'm not. The day is stretching before me like a prairie road into the horizon and I can't be bothered to walk it. But I can't fast-forward time either. I want instead to go back in time to the day I told Dad he could stick it. Stick his chore list where the sun don't shine. I was expecting fireworks but all I got was ice. Then my electronics disappeared, my allowance was stopped and I have to get the bus to school rather than him giving me a lift. Nothing's going to change either 'till I figure out why he's so angry. So now I intend to mess with this column; break it with barriers, crush some of them, see if I can make them go in a circle.
The morning was as old as the coffee on my desk. I tapped it's murky surface to break the thickening skin and watched the new gap grow. The frigid brown drink dripped from my finger, the ripples spreading toward the rim in ever larger circles. I know I'm spoilt, so used to the finest beans, always freshly brewed and served with half-and-half. I still crave a subtle undertone of hazelnut and my cup to be a festive colour with cardboard around it to protect my fingers from the heat. Instead it is this instant muck, served warm in polystyrene - depression served without a smile. It suits this place though, it matches the beige walls and the melamine desks, it's as welcoming as the unguarded strip lights and the worn blue carpet. The only thing alive in here is the ticking clock, I think the rest of us died some time ago.
The plasma screen sat in the corner like an unwelcome mirror. Gina tried not to look, but with it switched off the reflected mess in the room seemed so much worse than the real thing. The television should mean fantasy, looking at the lives of others, being a fly on the wall - not a poor copy of her own disorder, her own monotony. Her foot tapped rhythmically up and down, her cheeks felt tight, then almost without a conscious thought she picked up the remote to select the music channel and sat back, mind comfortably blank once more.
Leaning forwards against a dusty wall, feet pushed far back, carefully drooling, seeing how far the spittle could dangle without breaking.
Boredom kills. There I am tapping my school desk repetitively with the end of my pencil, staring out of the window, wishing I was anywhere but here.
I glance at the clock for the hundredth time. It's not even two yet. The rest of the room is quiet except for the click clacks of keyboards and the occasional swivel of a chair. I stand up and walk out to get a drink of water...again.