I’m so fucking bored. The kind of bored that makes me irritable and angry, not listless and still. The kind of bored I feel behind my eyes, a vitriolic little headache that demands I do something about it. The weight is slowly piling back on despite attending the gym and dog walks and working on the bag at home- nothing can compare to 10 hours a day in the kitchen or planting or mucking 18 stalls a day along with 5km runs. I don’t think my metabolism is calibrated for a lifestyle involving being recumbent for any length of time.
They say that boredom is a failure of the imagination, but it is hard to be imaginative living in a vacuum. I try to write and work on short stories, blogs, memoirs, but when you are literally uninspired, it’s hard. I made a pinhole camera and can’t afford film or a makeshift dark room, so that project has ground to a halt. Nothing is accessible to me from here without spending, and I am so bare bones broke that even $10 bus tickets are an iffy expenditure. I’m in a town so small there isn’t even a place to go out and get a coffee and hang out. Well, there’s a shitty diner with the same amount of charisma and atmosphere as your average roadside truck stop, but hey, I’m also broke after foolish spending choices on a blown vacation to England/Iceland and trying to pay off debt while hanging on to tenacious financial security while waiting for May and seasonal employment to roll around. It is impossible to sit down and focus on a story with no inspiration and getting sucked back into the endless cycle of imgur clicking and Facebook news-feed scrolling with unfocused eyes. So, slowly, I get more and more furious at myself- more lacking imagination, for being unable to focus, for being bored, for wasting time, for not being able to find a way to occupy myself, for not being ambitious enough to fix it.
No money, no car, no freedom. The sensation of being ‘trapped’ is almost unbearable, especially as somebody who should be a self sufficient 25 year old. “You fucking loser,” is pretty much all I can think to myself. “At least use your fucking time productively.” But the days slip away from me unused and wasted and I get slightly more angry with every passing hour. “You could fix this,” little voice says. “Shut the fuck up,” I tell little voice. Trying to make pragmatic choices and stay put between each adventure is so hard, though. I don’t want the small adventures to be the outliers, I want them to be life, and I am sure it is a failing on my part that makes it so that it isn’t. A thousand outlandish plans and ways to use my time, all dying a slow back burner death while I stare at my unused keyboard or spend another hour lurking exes on Facebook. No horseback riding (requires money and a car), no writing (no inspiration), no hiking (no car, bad weather) no socializing (small town, bad at making friends), and a slow, steady sinking back into that hole that I had tentatively, then gleefully, walked away from.
I swear I can feel my tits getting saggier and my gut getting fatter from hour to hour of sitting still. I could catch up on reading my classic lit, I could work on my portfolio, I could write a book or submit short stories, my sourdough starter wants attention, I could re-learn the piano, but I am utterly uninspired and the cycle is vicious and I’ll just repeatedly take hot baths, re-read old sci-fi novels and pulp fiction and watch Netflix and kill precious time while I wait for my next, scheduled adventure to roll around.
How do you maintain motivation and positivity when every day is exactly the same? What am I missing here? I’m not a good self motivator, I need structure and thrive on trying to cram way too much into one day, not on having an entire, leisurely, stressfully empty day stretch away before me with the potential to be inevitably wasted.