It gets so hard to lift my head from my phone.
Isn’t that tragically beautiful?
This pandemic is irresistible.
We talk too much but we don’t talk enough.
We celebrate that our condition is critical.
So, I’m happy with my disease.
I don’t want to cure it.
I know it’ll get to me eventually,
but, in the meantime, I’m entertained.
The colors won’t release me.
They’ll always stay the same
because I won’t die of old age,
but, of boredom.
And if I can outrun boredom,
then I can outrun death,
and the algorithm will make me immortal.
My therapist asks me what I’m running from.
I say “boredom” and she points out
that it must be incredibly boring
to see the same type of content over and over.
I tell her, “Yes, but it’s more colorful than this
gray hell that we live in.”
She replies, “Well, aren’t bread and circuses
what kill your soul the most?”
“No, because if I can outrun boredom,
then I can outrun death,
and the algorithm will have mercy on me.
A sinner,
I will become
an internet hero
with digital walls
and simulated power.”
She looks horrified, but I tell her
that hell is hell and boredom is death
and that there is no such thing as hell
because what is hell
but being bored for all eternity?
Grey Sparrow Journal 