I don’t get bored easily.
I’ve eaten tuna fish sandwiches for lunch for months and oatmeal for breakfast for years. I can play solitaire for hours straight, play the same video game throughout the night, spend a weekend reading, reading, reading only reading. I am in love with routine.
Amazingly, this is a new revelation to me. I blame two reasons. The reasons I will blame are two.
First, my life-blindness is because by routine I don’t mean the same thing day after day after day, but the same type of things.
1. Get up, shower, take care of the cat.
2. Go to Inversion or Black Hole.
3. Write blog post and, if I’m lucky or determined, work on a poem or a story.
4. Eat lunch either at the coffee shop or at home. If at the coffee shop, return home afterwards.
5. Play a game for a few guilty minutes/half-hours/hours.
6. Prepare applications for contests, fellowships, jobs.
7. Watch Netflix with Megan.
In all of those items, there is a lot of room for variation. How long to spend? What exactly to write/eat/watch/play/read?
But, overall, it’s a boring man’s life.
Second, I am not bored by this boring man’s life.
Intellectually, I feel like I should be. Who doesn’t want excitement? Who doesn’t want the edgy bite of danger in their day-to-day existence? Who doesn’t want to jump out of a plane for a living?
If you answered NO to that last question, then I’m right there with you. As for the other two, I feel like I should want dangerousness (i.e., just the appearance of danger) and I do have excitement. It’s just that the excitement I have is a direct result of my writing.
Years and years ago, I feared sacrificing my life to my writing, putting myself up on altar of words and offering my heart to the muses. Now, I think I’m close to succeeding.
Will the muses look down upon me and my soon-to-be sacrifice and stay the knife?
Do I want them to?