I’m approaching week five of self-isolation, but I haven’t yet caught the boredom bus. I see some screaming, crawling up the walls. But I’m still living comfortably, stuck on the couch. I guess I’ve always been a homebody, being stranded has never really bothered me. Adventure has been achieved by turning the pages of a book, daydreaming of other worlds and distant lands. Comfort has been found in the company of fictional characters, stories that I’ve created. Home is where the heart is, even if the heart longs to be somewhere else.
The desire to escape appears only briefly in the early hours of the morning, when the sun has yet to rise and hope appears in the corner of my eye. During these shallow moments, I am torn, begging for productivity, needing calm to ease the strain. My brain is frozen, restless, seeking something new. My body is suspended in mid-air, nowhere to go, nothing to do. Fear materializes as I gaze into the future. Indecision dissolves as I close the door, obey the resolution. Choice has been stolen, fed to The Beast. Freedom has been handed over, deliberately given away.
Worry and stress have become my constant companions. I am not bored, because they keep me busy. There’s always something to do, a thought to over overthink. Boredom evades me, because fury vanishes when I remain inside, tucked away from the wicked watch of darkness. I am boredom’s enemy, because I choose to hide. I choose to keep others safe. We will survive as long as we put someone else’s well-being above our own. Be a homebody, protected, secure inside your cave.