I’m so wildly bored.
It’s a running theme in my life. I’m running from life and it’s chasing me down the street, frantically waving. Maybe I’ve forgotten or dropped something, but I keep running – the fear that if I slow down I’ll start to feel the aches and pains for moving all this time.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I half heartedly start a book, but in its pages I either find too much truth or too little – so I return to my palm. I stare at expressionless faces of girls, painting their faces. All prettier than I, all more successful. Their skin radiates beauty and contentment, but their eyes tell me of the tears. For they may be prettier than I, but they too cannot escape their minds. So we scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I find myself on the page of the last boy who entered me. Another person whose smirk contains a part of me. But I cannot feel sorrow, for I gave it away. Wrapped in a bow and handed over with a smile. I miss the times a parting gift was a small slice of cake, wrapped in a napkin and handed in a little plastic bag with your name on it. Now, it is a cacophony of thoughts, all too much to give heed to. Messages typed and deleted, never sent. For no one must know you feel.
So I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I post mundane stories about my life, then I ponder deleting them for the full 24 hours they remain live.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
My relationships are fractured, but I am attached to figures on a screen I have never met nor seen outside of a pixelated form. To view beauty under a microscopic lense and inflict that pain upon myself and my purse strings. My restlessness, my boredom, my innate desire to shut it all down, maybe that will be solved when I lose 2 stone and inject my face with chemicals. When I consume so much material, that the world burns in time with my mind. But we cannot have these thoughts, for they are too dark, too cynical, too sad. If I express them to the world, I’ll be handed little pills and told everything will be okay. So I absorb them.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
Because that is the only action I have been taught to do. Nature is to be feared, material to be prized. Fast cars, private jets, fake holiday shows to find love. Laid out in front of us to be revered, while their employees plead next to the washing machine symbol. Idyllic this life.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
Legs spread, backs arched, lips pursed. Barely eighteen and finding her feminism. Legs unshaven, picket signs, lips screaming into the silence. Barely eighteen and finding her feminism. A generation founded behind screens. Set to pull the world out of this ever-waking nightmare, if they can pull themselves away from the ‘what I eat in a day’ videos. One woman is telling me I can’t have carbs, the other is spreading butter on every available surface and one man ate 2500 calories for fun. I’m sorry to the revolution, but I must unpick this mystery. Give me 3-5 working days.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
The man telling me to stand up and pay attention is wearing a Rolex. The woman brandishing that sign is wearing Missguided. The Ukrainian down the road can’t rent a flat. The small African child on the screen I am numb to. Yet I’m bored. Focus and concentration are things of the past, like finding an old polly pocket in the back of a cupboard.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
I sit and I scroll.
Idyllic this world we scroll. So idyllic I’m sat here, experiencing my brain and the world in flames 28 years too early.
