Imminent Boringhood.


My primary worry that occupies the most space in any of my thought processes is that one day I will be boring. I worry that I will have nothing interesting to say. I am preoccupied with this thought to the point that I find minutes of my life slipping away out of my advantage. What if my creativity dries up as an old women’s breasts droop? What if my creativity gets amputated like a bloody stump that had been plagued with gangrene? I keep going down this world closer to the professional. And I find myself forgetting Aristotle, theatre terminology, Spanish, feminist tropes, themes in the ancient Greek plays, and football calls.

A friend recommended that I get high in order to see what kind of work I would make. She, then, went on to compare me to The Beatles. ! Their work was amazing prior to their drug use, she says. Yes, I agreed. Well, it hit another level when they started using. Maybe, it will work like that for you too, she exclaimed.

Maybe, I whispered. If I don’t become boring first, I thought.

When I write anything I always feel better when I write it on paper first. Paper is more forgiving than the computer. There’s something final about the computer, I think. Don’t worry, I am fully cognizant of the fact that the computer keyboard has a delete key. It is not a typewriter nor permanent. However, I think the paper and I have an understanding, of what nature I cannot describe yet. The paper is not intimidating. It doesn’t pressure me to be quick witted. It has no standards. Dragging the pen to form the letters allows me just nano-seconds longer than typing would to work my thoughts. I have a hard time keeping up with my brain’s conversation, let alone my friends. I find myself constantly re-explaining everything I say.

I wish I were Virginia Woolf in The Hours. I have a lap desk. I have really nice pens. I need paper. I’m almost there. I want to make up words.

As I wade through the days, I become ever more selective. No compromises. No concessions. This is about me and thus no sacrifice for anyone becomes part of the equation. I’m going to find myself alone every night staring at the stars.

I think the loneliness is creeping in on me like a mugger about to assault.

What if I become boring as I advance towards the more professional stages of life? Should I remain an academic the rest of my life in order to hold onto my interests and broad but not deep knowledge? I don’t want to forget how to look at a painting.

I am going to the Met tomorrow.


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