There’s probably an unwritten rule that people who are puttering along on an even keel aren’t supposed to express boredom. Bad form, old bean. You’ve got nothing to complain about.
Nonetheless, I’m…soooo…bored. With myself, with my writing, with life. Don’t get me wrong, Universe. I am not, repeat, NOT, asking for some fraught circumstance to occur and liven things up. No, no, no.
But would it upset some divine plan (or an obscure subparagraph in my life contract) to inject a nice surprise? Med beds, maybe. Or debt forgiveness and the Reval. How about if mainstream and social media flipped a switch overnight and began spewing nonstop truth? Just a little something like that.
Even though I ought to know better, I keep hoping for relief through a shift in circumstances.
I could rebrand this disinterest and listlessness as detachment. Isn’t that a spiritual virtue? It certainly sounds better than a petulant “I’m bored.”
I’m not only bored, I can’t seem to get riled up about things I felt passionately about not that long ago. I feel nothing but brief puzzlement followed by dismissal when I see people wearing masks again. I used up all my indignation and anxiety about masks years ago, and have no stake in other people’s choices about it.
It seems implausible that mask or vaccine mandates would return. And even if they did, I expect their only impact on me would be as previously: wear a mask (pulled below my nose) to enter most buildings, and ignore any vaccine mandates. I won’t get myself banned from the grocery store by waltzing in, defiantly maskless, to make a “statement.” Some battles just aren’t worth it.
I’ve an easy life by most counts, and grumbling about my lot no doubt demonstrates a lack of gratitude for all the blessings. If so, then I’ll add ingratitude to my list of character defects and put it aside to be dissolved by Spirit when I remember to make the request.
Am I committing the faux pas of giving away my power? Counting on a future event (med beds, Reval) to motivate a more vibrant engagement with life? Or—more likely—this might be a fleeting mood, soon to fade away along with other emotional ephemera.
I pet the exquisitely silky white fur of my contentedly purring cat, and decide he’s an excellent role model. I close my eyes, dismiss both fruitless worry and disenchantment with self, and imagine I’m dreaming adventurous and colorful kitty-cat dreams.