One distraction succeeds another, and boredom is a lack distraction, all distraction being stimulation, and stimulation fills the conscious hours, engages the senses, absorbs the mind. When an absorbed mind is no longer absorbed, when its buzzing subsides, then the sinking, crashing boredom returns. But the boredom was always there, and distraction merely swaddles it, smothers it, stacks its layers high. Distractions stack like books upon a table, a tower to behold, and level by level it diminishes, top-down, until the varnished surface gleams, glassy-eyed, punched with window-like reflections, an empty, fluorescent message from the building ceiling.
To sigh and nail-tap the frozen, flowing grains, so like the marbling of flesh. To nail-tap the now-empty surface with a miniature panic, a nervous need, a pocket of depression, as if en route between two points, two peaks, two goals.
But even at this lower altitude, even in this dip, this valley, this shade…perspective reinvigorates, reinspires. Its resurgence is a shrouded pleasantry, an unexpected view, an absence of weight, a sudden dose of wakefulness. And in these lower states, the wakefulness is drugged. Once it droops, the mind wobbles for a spell, drifting just beyond, not quite locked into a track, but orbiting just the same, orbiting chaotically, hesitantly, noncommittal. But with time the mind will acclimate, will assert itself, will fill in the gaps. Like a burst of flavor, the internal dialogue, the rhythm of discovery–let us call it contemplation–the greatest sport imagined, a fascinated memory, that causes one to stare around with eagerness, curiosity, interest and delight. Beauty, once discovered, only matures, and boredom always was an embryo.