The universe is vast and filled with so much life and activity and nonsense and yet, we often find ourselves in a state of excruciating idleness that, to me, is more terrifying than anything. Bad things happen when boredom strikes, and personally, it keeps my mind racing uncontrollably towards the chasm of twisted thoughts and unnerving, unnecessary ideas that constantly throw me over the edge. And it’s exhausting, to be honest, because the more you’re not doing anything, the more you question the point of everything, whether or not they remain valid for you or if you’re just slipping and sliding on the fabric of time and space.
I say this because I have, as always, once again fallen victim to the dormancy of summer and its habit of rendering me subjected to an unconscious schedule of the same things, and the same things, always the same things. It feels endless, and when something feels endless—eternal, even—that’s when you start to feel stuck on a loop and hopping on to a never-ending carousel ride. Around you go, with a particular timing and pace, like clockwork. You see the same things, go the same route, and it never ends. You’d be holding on to sanity, if not for dear life.
And because I can’t stand to be idle, one thing I’ve always wanted to do was to travel. I dislike being cooped up in one place for a lengthy period of time which, in my case, is the whole of my existence for all seventeen years. Of course, that’s an exaggeration, but not by more than a mile. As an aspiring writer, I do feel like most of my ignorance towards certain things and my annoying habit of grasping for words (which ultimately leads me to getting up and leaving my writing space altogether) spurs from my lack of experience and my general deficiency in sights I have yet to see. To be fair, I’ve only lived seventeen years, albeit completely dull ones, and might have plenty more to see, but I am itching to get off my seat and just be somewhere else other than where I am now. I have a restless soul, always wanting to do one thing without finishing the other. I want to be in a state of constant motion. And that poses more of a problem than anything because I can’t afford to, not me, not now.
I could sit on a bus for hours on end, so long as I’m seated by the window. I can’t bear to be anywhere, no matter how long or short the duration of time, only to have the option to stare at my lap or at the back of a person’s head in front of me. I need to see things, different things. Otherwise, I just spend my time quietly brooding in my corner of the universe, hating the people who’ve become painfully redundant in my life, and the noises in my head take over. It isn’t fun.
We are designed to move. And the world around us was built to be seen because it’s beautiful—noise and filth and all. Steinbeck once said, “I saw in their eyes something I was to see over and over in every part of the nation- a burning desire to go, to move, to get under way, anyplace, away from any Here. They spoke quietly of how they wanted to go someday, to move about, free and unanchored, not toward something but away from something,” and I don’t think it could hold any more truth to it. Here is only as good as the people in it, but then over time, you look at them and get bored, and Here becomes just another wasteland. You long to be somewhere else. You long to move. And when you can’t, gathering dust in place as you wait for the next car to pass that you can hitchhike on, you sort of look at the world differently–sourly, bitterly–and you forget what it was you were supposed to be doing there in the first place.