The Boring and the Bored

I erase myself in the blank white pages of the screen, beckoning me. I started writing during quarantine. The void was calling. I popped a bottle of champagne from the before-times, when people celebrated, and started my journey. I sat on my bed and wrote apology letters and bad poetry, prose poems and manifestos to the undying. I think, ultimately, writing made me less boring.

When I'm bored I start typing. Something coming from nothing. The phoenix rising from the ashes, a becoming. I'm not good, in fact I'm rather bland and not for everyone. I'm the white pudding that comes in those little cups with lids impossible to take off. When you open me up I explode in a sugar rush, angry and clogged with unnecessary ingredients that leave a chemical taste in your mouth. Or maybe that's my writing.

I struggle with being boring. I've heard that if you're frequently bored, you're a boring person. But then what is writing? It is the void that beckons, and I go willingly. I follow a thought down a path, Hansel and Gretel, bread crumbs that will surely lead me to glory and fame, recognition and happiness. I wonder if people read what I write and decide I am not worthwhile - a boring mess of emotional distress. But I digress. How can anyone be boring who has a passion, a hobby that makes you free at last?