What is boredom? Does it, with its piercing ability of prodding the bearer into a muddled up state of measuring; of him self, unbearable and over aching. Does the intensely deplorable state of measure, of himself, change him? Does boredom leave lasting impressions on the person? What does it do to the person that falls prey to this overpowering and overwhelming suffocating, nauseating feeling?
The intrinsic character of the person-social animal, as hesitantly hailed by the society- hitherto encumbered by the seething and continuous ever lasting action, is flushed with the expectancy of more. And, when the person is denied of this voluptuous ubiquity of seductive intensity, when the person is thrown away from the activity, and when he finds himself in the corner of a dark room, the looming crisis strikes and he admits. His admission takes the route of a torturous act of self preservation in the face of boredom. But, defaced after the struggle, he admits, almost palpitating with anger, as blood drains away from his face that is rid of societal claims that perhaps life isn’t actually living.
But, perhaps, all of this seemingly endless activity around him left him with no time to contemplate, no time to pursue the path of solitude, and he never thought that there ever was a path of solitude. Now, that he has tasted it, it becomes almost impossible to give it away. He preserves it in the face of the cold, damp and dark atmosphere namely society, he preserves his solitude under the weight of crumbling, he holds it with his fists tight to never let go of it. And, time passes, slowly but gradually, the memory of his accidental stumbling on the precious of all activities in life through the path of one of the most melancholy arts of life-boredom.
Then, he finds time again, only this time, he excuses himself with the lamest and dumbest of all soliloquies. But, soon the time comes, when he approaches the mystical feeling with trepidation like a child in the middle of the night tiptoes not to wake up his parents. The walls of solitude are all too obtrusive, not easily hidden away and hence, the effort to approach becomes even tougher, for the entire world is aware of your approach, your hesitant little mincing steps towards the walls of solitude.
Then, it happens, he enters the cave of solitude, walls overarching the entrance in an almost conclusive step, to be or not to be. But, once inside, the person is barely noticed, he forgets his own self, for the acrid smell of solitude dissolves into the molecules inside the cave and suffuses through the chemical composition if his body and leave him bereaved, without a body, without a presence. There, naked, he stands and hidden away from the senseless futility of life outside, there he performs his little act of thinking. And, with every single thread he draws from the atmosphere inside the cave, the threads dipped wet in the fluid of nothingness form the exteriors of his mind, while his vacant thoughts take the shape, structure and substance of the interiors of his mind.
There, transformed, he exits the cave and the vacant thoughts liquefy once again. Outside the cave, he no longer submits himself to the atmospheric pressure of the society, for the shield of his new mind protects the form inside. The thoughts protected and impervious; form and reform. They stay awake, without solidifying for most of the time. Here, he assumes the most skeptical of all postures, for his mind is absorbed with the form inside.
Now thoughts take shape, where hitherto thoughts were solidified, dictated by the atmospheric violence of society. But, now the shield that he acquired from solitude protects his mind and he stands vanquished and vindicated.
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