On being boring

You walk aimlessly through the corridors of your mind trying desperately to find something to do.  It’s a lethargic process, probably escalated by the lack of conversation as a result of the wiser employees who took their day off to extend their long weekend.  The four of us left behind does not a great party make.  Besides it’s technically only two of us for the other two are accountants and we all know they don’t have any form of personality…

So you’re stuck with work, that doesn’t seem important, mails that can wait another day, conversations that seems incredibly tedious and boring for they are incredibly tedious and boring.  And your mind is as empty as a bottle of red wine after dinner.  And it’s being taunted by the blank Wordpress screen.  You shuffle through rubble on the Internet, because let’s face it, there is a lot of shit out there.  You surf through favourites and realise that the storm is gone and the waves are only illusions of grandeur filled with reports on the Emmy awards.

You stumble back to your friends who are expertly filling the blogosphere with humour, oddities and needful things.  And you watch the little icon on the top right until your eyes tear up and you realise blinking is a human necessity.  But it doesn’t turn orange; so you can’t be witty or sincere or even a frigging douche bag.

And the desire is there.  Strong, bubbling like lava beneath the surface.  The desire to write something, the only problem being nothing comes to mind to write about.  Nothing funny happened over the weekend, nothing funny is happening at the moment, and it doesn’t seem that anything funny will happen soon.  Unless you count me telling everyone that they can go home early.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not depressed, nor am I being ineffective.  I’m not stealing idle time and setting a bad example to my subordinates (OK, maybe I am, so sue me)  I’m just being boring.  Being in a place where nothing seems to happen.  Looking at a blank canvas the size of space.  Like Lost but without the great characters, story lines and flashbacks.  A place where the blankness of my creativity is as annoying as a jack hammer @ three in the morning.  Where the ability to write something worth posting seems as farfetched as me not finishing a box of Turkish delight.

What if this is that writer’s thing they talk about?  What if I ran out of ideas?  What if I can never be funny again? (Assuming I was)  What if I published my last great post?  What if no-one ever reads anything I write again? (Writer slumps down and hit head against keyboard!  He gets up and wipes the blood from the cut on his forehead)


I’m back.  And don’t worry I am not bi-polar or anything.  I’m just bored.  Those-stuck-with-watching-paint-dry-moments in life.  But I had some coffee, listened to Flo-Rida and browsed Freshly Pressed for inspiration.  And I’m ready to hit PUBLISH.  Thereafter I’m going home.

Isn’t writing awesome?  Even if it’s about nothing…


7 thoughts on “On being boring

  1. I feel we appreciate the words we right when we go through periods of times we can’t.. I think those are best times to go back and read what we’ve written… maybe what you need to hear you have already said 😉


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