Boordoom

Bored is a strange term. As if a hole dug into a house by a carpenter bee. 

That bee boring likely wasn’t bored. She was busy boring with her teeth or claws or whatever tool she carries. 

Bored seems like action — not the lack of action. 

So, now I’m bored. Just sent a blog-like, wandering rant to an old man on Craigslist. In response to his community comment regarding giving at Christmas. Though I left the theme of the holiday and spoke purely of giving. The new act that sucked forty dollars from my wallet in my first week, even though I was poor as dirt. 

The message ran through several opinions that I choose not to repeat out of boredom’s case. I wonder what this man will think when he reads the email. I plugged my blog for reference, even though it seems advertisement, I don’t care. Perhaps he’ll be bored or intrigued enough to look. 

This writing is virtually one big ponderance. A question. Not an answer, but a way of explaining so that I, myself, can discover what surfaces while I type. I write and think and write and look at the spaces between the words to see what could be. Staring at the cursor that blinks so readily awaiting my message makes me want to write and to continue the rant in hopes that a clear message will eventually surface. 

I lay here thinking of all the ideas that may be written and imagine them coming together with delight. Yet so far as I know, only one project is next, but which shall make the cut and be achieved first? Or what begins the process that has only reached paper, barely escaped from the mind?

8:55am, Thursday, 12.21.17

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