It’s boring, it’s all boring.

That’s what I tell myself.

Then I remember a quote

from a source I never cared to research

that says

Only boring people get bored

A quaint platitude for the

Quiet existentialist

Bored.

Like gutted?

eviscerated?

No.

Just bored.

Like a hangnail

like a collection of sweat under the arm

like an eyelash floating across the sclera

I stopped doing what I’m supposed to

But only figuratively

I’m not strong enough to push the literal chip off my shoulders

and the comfort of its presence has worn my bones thin

Occasionally they break

right down the middle

A line separates me from It

I take the glue of banality

Piece them together

When the time comes

for a test of durability

my feet always become lodged

in the cemented anguish

I’ve condemned myself

To a fatalistic existence

I defame my character

In hopes it dissolves completely

in hopes that maybe someday

I won’t feel that ache

i won’t feel compelled to do

I’ll be.

I’ll drink of myself until

i shrivel

I’ll eat of myself until

i disappear

All, figuratively of course

because it would be

literally beyond my comprehension

Maybe that’s who God is.

The in-between for

the in-betweens

The sediment for incongruence

i am the erosion

boredom is my nature.