Boredom Is Our Salvation
I read Youth which was recommended to me by the “wisest man” who I’ve written about before. Today, I finally compiled my collection of thoughts and quotes into a review. Writing that review gave me yet further appreciation of the book: it’s a raw picture of humanity in the modern world — even if the book depicts a time we would now call old. I call the book profound because it is raw. It embodies a person: a real person. It is the essence of someone in pain.
I find that beautiful because this is something people try their best to avoid. I would dare not judge anyone for their choices or taste in something, but why is everyone reading fantasy romance? One friend said it was because the world is hard enough, so why not escape into something rather than face yet more hardship in a book (such as Youth). There’s an interesting pattern in that: this idea of “escape.”
It isn’t escapism in the sense of blocking out the world to live in ignorant bliss, rather it’s the idea of having a moment to one’s self to rest and not think. It is having time to have some semblance of bliss in the chaotic sea that is life. Of course, such books are no problem in isolation, but why do people avoid anything outside of their scope? My conclusion is that this is the same problem imposed by the likes of Instagram or TikTok or YouTube. I say this because I find myself in the midst of this very problem.
As I write this, my phone is sitting just beside me. I keep it with me because I never know when someone will write. That is the point of a phone, after all, to receive messages with no prior notice. But why do I pick it up, then, when I can plainly see that I have no messages? It is boredom. The human mind does not like to be bored. It hunts for something to do, and that churning process is something we can no longer bear. When I was in Akureyri two years ago, having just moved to Iceland, and I had no internet for three or four days, what did I do? With nothing else to do, I wrote poetry. A lot of poetry. And I enjoyed it. Why now does checking some page on my phone take priority over writing poetry or going for a walk?
I do try my best to avoid those impulses. Sometimes, I will grab my camera instead. Sometimes, I will study a language for a bit. Sometimes, I will go for walk. Or read. Or write. What I pray shall never happen is that I scroll — scrolling something mindless. I believe that is the problem: Bored minds will find something to do. Take the phone or the computer out of the picture. What then? There quite simply is nothing else to do but read or write or study or make art or go out into the world.
This boredom that the modern world deprives us of is what humanity is born out of. It isn’t something to run from, rather to embrace. It was boredom that made me a writer. It was boredom at work that made me an artist. It was boredom that has me sitting here, right now, writing these words. My tireless mind reached for something — saw the phone — and I took control. What that looks like is sitting, doing nothing at all, for a few minutes. Then came the desire to write.
Boredom is our salvation. It is the sustenance of thought. It is the precursor to action. Everything has a time and a place. The many accounts I follow on Instagram direct me to the going-ons of the city: poetry events, concerts, gallery openings, etc. But those need only to be checked once a day, not once an hour. I learn a lot from YouTube, I find a lot of artistic inspiration in the people I follow there. But that is not a day’s activity: it should be treated with intention.
We must think and let our mind wander. We must let the subconscious work away, solving problems and forming connections we never even knew were being worked on. I started writing my third book a few weeks ago, but I’ll probably delete everything I’ve written so far and start over. Before I do that, I’ll share an excerpt which I think fits well here:
My conclusion thus far is that the ability to finish a project relies on being capable of finishing (are you truly an artist, or trying to be an artist) and allowing space to come about on its own. Everything comes with time, even the embodying of artistry itself. In all this time I have spent not writing, my mind has filled to the utter brim with ideas, and my heart has filled to the brim and beyond with feelings and emotions that must be expressed. By not writing, my next piece that I do write will be made all the richer for it.
I often ask myself why I live in Reykjavík — in Iceland. I read Youth by J.M. Coetzee wherein the character spends time in London, in a library. Where he has space. Here in Reykjavík, everything opens at 10:00 and closes by 18:00. There aren’t even any “spaces” to begin with. I spent some time in Finland last year. I saw the libraries and museums, the countless spaces that lined the streets in every which way of every town and city. “Why do I not live somewhere like that?” I asked myself. I still wonder. Sometimes, my apartment feels constricting. But there’s nowhere else to go. The beauty of all this is that it is added to my collection — captured by my heart and mind, these feelings, awaiting their release.
My space to write is found, then, here at home: this small apartment in this small city in this small country. It is found when I first address the issue of time: taking time off work. Then addressing the issue of the mind: addressing the troublesome and bothersome thoughts and emotions. That is done by taking yet more time off work or other unwanted obligations. At last, the issue of writing is addressed. That happens when my mind — finally — brings up not a worry or a concern or a memory or an idea, but a question: “What is it that I now want to write?”