I’m bored with
myself, bored with school, bored with my day-to-day activities.
My mother always told me not to use that word “bored,” but
for the situation I’m in, I have found no better substitute; and for that, I am
sorry. But I cannot deny the dreariness I feel, which is equal to a constant
sleepiness, like the drowsy effects of Nyquil.
My life is a checklist. Wake up, go to the gym, do homework,
go to the office, go to class, go home, stay awake long enough to do more
homework, shower, sleep. I hate school, by the way; but it is on my checklist, so I have to do it. I have no time for myself. I have no time in which I can sit, think of something
to do, and just go and do it and have fun. There is little to no enjoyment in anything I do.
Why? Well, I’d simply rather be somewhere else.
Virginia Beach is a fine place if you’ve never been here; we
have rock wall climbing, hiking trails, proximity to Williamsburg and the Blue
Ridge Mountains, and, of course, a beach. After living here for so long,
though, it is easy to want to be anywhere else.
The same faces surround you, because everyone who is going
to leave has already left, and you are stuck here because of family, the school
you attend, or the job position you’ve gotten and can’t afford to give up. It
is all of these things for me, and I feel as though I’m stuck in a very small
box from which there is no exit.
My mind is partially to blame for this entrapping box,
restricting me from doing potentially fun things, because of every “what if”
the universe has to offer. What if I get hurt? What if I fall behind in
homework? What if I damage my chance with that boy who literally does not care
about me? What if I waste my time? What if I get so bored writing this that I
choose to end this post here, with absolutely no concluding point as to why I
wrote this?
Maybe this is why journalists are alcoholics.
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