I feel lucky in that I am rarely bored. Yes, I end up doing boring things from time to time yet there is so much else to be getting on with that it is easy for me to switch my mind to something more entertaining or challenging. Boredom can be a gift as it encourages you to be inventive and creative.
Of late though, I have had feelings of being bored with life. Nothing big or alarming but a slight niggle in the back of my mind. Some of the things that excited me in my youth leave me indifferent now. The thrill of going to the pub, buying new clothes and even travel have waned for me and as time goes on more and more experiences are being slowly added to the list.
I don’t feel down though. My melancholy, if that is what it is, cannot be helped by the long winter nights, the ongoing fallout from the pandemic and the uncertain political climate. In lockdown, whatever the tier, a degree of boredom is inevitable. When I think about it however, my feelings of ennui go back some time.
I hope to have many years left in this world, I still have so much more to do, yet I am left wondering if this is the start of the end.
How much longer has the clock to rundown before my time is up? Is it inevitable that my interests will gradually seep away, leach back into where they came from, while new things that captivate me come along less and less frequently? Will the days grow long, with fewer thrills and fewer interests piqued, with ever-expanding periods of emptiness and only my memories to keep me occupied?
I will never know until the time comes and won’t be in a position to say whether I was right or wrong. Will I eventually die, literally from boredom?