What do you love now, that you hated when you were younger?

The truth is that everyone is bored, and devotes himself to cultivating habits.

Albert Camus, The Plague

Boredom—bland little room of time,
where thoughts go quiet, lose their rhyme.
I hate that hum, that waiting air,
that nothing-waits-to-become-there.

My eyes refuse to hold the day,
it drifts like paint that won’t obey.
I scowl at stillness, flat and tame,
a monochrome that feels like shame.

“Enough,” I mutter, “change, combust—”
but seconds sit, unimpressed, then—just
continue, like a metronome
that makes my heartbeat feel like home.

Then—oddly—space begins to clear;
the mind, released from frantic near,
turns inward, finds its own small light,
and stops demanding noise to write.

Stillness isn’t always a snare.
It loosens knots I didn’t know were there.
So fine, keep being dull, keep going slow—
I’ll learn to breathe where nothing shows.

Boredom, you were not the void.
You were the pause I couldn’t avoid.
Now I’ll let you sit beside my chair
and watch me soften, unscarred.

Duck.ai

One Track Life – PREP