Passion, Boredom, & Beauty

The road traveled longer than infinity. The air was sharp, but the conversations tickled our brains.

"The Triumvirate" I call ourselves and one posed a question to ignite the cool air.

“What are you passionate and curious about?” She asked.

“Understanding my consciousness.” As the words fled my mouth, puke almost followed.

Eyes rolled to the end of the road, a foul stench entered our noses. Disgust present among us—me most of all.

“Boo! Boo!” The crowd yells as verbal tomatoes send me off stage.

Laughter and embraced nonsense cleared the air as we continued to play amongst Nature further discussing passion and curiosity.

Passion. Curiosity. I love these words. The two ingredients for a life worth living.

I'm addicted to the aura of the passionate. Those who drown themselves in their crafts, where bodily matters in fact don't. Where the only thing that matters is "the thing."

I'm drawn to those drunk on curiosity. Those who lead themselves and others to alternate dimensions—present around us but never seen before.

It’s been almost a year since that conversation on passion and curiosity. I’m proud to say I’m no longer interested in my consciousness.

But I am ashamed to admit passion and curiosity have left me.

The candle of passion dwindles. The river of curiosity runs dry. Caffeine burns my brain. Endless scrolling on mindless drivel like self-optimization, self-forgetfulness, or self-escape.

Samsaric entertainment. Abundance all around, but the lack ruins the living. Utopia is dystopia. Monotony fattens my mind and the inhumans on social media irritate my eyes and ears.

Activities that used to bring me sanctuary and bliss feel gray and hollow.

• Playful hikes exhaust me.
• The fire for boxing dims.
• Travel loses its allure.
• Books fall on deaf ears.
• The ink of writing runs dry.

Before you impose your pseudo-science called psychology and its psychoanalysis, I am not depressed.

Even if I was, I have no right to be. I have a roof over my head. I am healthy. I’ve seen and felt the wonders of the world. I have people to love and be loved by.

I've said this once and I’ll state it again: I am the luckiest person to have lived. Ever.

Yet, Life lacks color.

Perhaps this feeling (or lack thereof) is a scar from the Alaskan winter. Perhaps it's age and I've become more rigid in my thinking. Therefore, my perception.

Perhaps I'm spoiled. Forever grateful, but numbed by the blessings I have, scavenging for the next dopamine hit for my egoic cravings and addictions.

I’m unsure, but I'm certain I seek salvation and satisfaction.

I'm reading a book called “Boredom” by Alberto Moravia. The leading character describes boredom as “no relationship with reality.”

I believe I‘m that. I’m not depressed. I’m not sad.

I’m bored and I hate it.

When I hear those who preach they're never bored, I cringe. I whisper to myself,

“They sound tone-deaf. I don’t believe them. I’m convinced they’re trying to convince themselves. All to make themselves feel and look better.”

But I know these whispers breathe false, from the irritable demon I know where it sleeps and wakes.

Behold my bitterness being: projecting my lack of curiosity and envious of those filled with it.

"Only boring people get bored", a quote I use to reference. How, funny.

Bitter and bored. Disgusted and tired. That's what I am.

I didn’t use to be this way. I may not always be this way. But I hate pretending I’m not currently this way.

Boredom has been my kingdom and I am no longer comfortable with it.

Tasting Colors and Seeing Flavors

Amidst the suffocation called boredom, I do find relief in the creative and expressive pursuits. Writing is my main expressive medium, but making playlists is my favorite expressive medium.

I view playlists as an alternate form of journaling. Each playlist is a snapshot and a story even I don’t know its meaning until after it's made.

Individually, songs may not reflect the image accurately. Collectively, a clearer picture emerges.

Recently, I made my annual summer playlist. It was so fun.

So much so, that I had to record the moment of the feeling because I knew it was fleeting:

“The creative juices flow like oranges consumed after wandering through the desert, quenching a deep thirst within me.

Sweet child-like innocence returns with laughter and silliness to embarrass the adult Self.

Erykah Badu‘s “Didn’t Cha Know” tickles my ears as the Alaskan Sun kisses me with her hues.”

The playlist served a melody that tasted familiar and fresh. With three words reminding me of what I've been starving for.

Color, Taste, and Realness.

• Color: Humor, warmth, fire, and feeling.
• Taste: The ability to receive and perceive.
• Realness: That which I seek most of all.

Yes, Realness. Not good. Not bad. Not moral or immoral. Realness.

I will no longer call it “Truth” for that word is cold and hijacked by spirituality. But Realness is tangible and immediate. Like a hand over a flame, it may warm you. It may burn you. But it will not fool you or you, it.

Its presence, a present. For what is real is beauty. Beauty, real.

Reflecting on the three words, they all stem from that one: Beauty.

Beauty is not mere aesthetics, but what is complete, total, and true.

I crave That. I want That.

I want to engage with Beauty. I want to be engaged to Beauty. If only a ring could sound her presence permanent.

But Beauty is born from reality and I’ve been lacking a relationship with reality.

In Enlightenment Not, I spoke on my departure from my useless, waste-of-time, obsession with philosophy and spirituality.

Gluttonous at their buffet, I believe they ruined my tastebuds. Everything tastes cold and bland.

I listened to the teachings to live without self and practiced the methods to connect with your "inner being"—the masquerades and performances to achieve "ultimate human potential."

Ironically, it made me feel less human. Human is all I ever want to be.

I want to be in a relationship with Reality again. A REALationship, if you will.

To have a relationship with reality, I must be in it. Fully.

I sought the colors of peace, stillness, and tranquility. But in doing so, I turned a blind eye to all the other hues of living.

The joyful and the painful, the attachment and detachment, the wonderful and the mundane, the tragic and the lovely, the sinful and sacred.

I want to see and feel All.

I want to experience what is completely human and what is complete and Human.

I. Want. Art.

This dying vessel has tasted the colors of infinity, accessed and received only through artistic expression. It has decided it's the only thing worth doing anymore, no matter the medium.

Making stories through the songs of others, translating the words of Her, or disappearing into moments with people, living and immortal.

It wants to create. It wants to share. It wants to feel.

You.

To see, taste, and hear.

Essence.

My own and yours.

Years ago, a friend once said, “The world needs more color.” Her words finally found a home within me.

Whether through my creations or others, I desire Art. Not in the offering of one's heart but in its bleeding.

Art does not make me feel alive. Art makes me know I am alive.

Timeless found in the moment, Permanence in the feeling, Eternity in the Love.

Creating is the salvation I seek. Sharing is the satisfaction I crave.

All to express my favorite phrase in human language, “Thank you.”

For You and Life are worth celebrating.

Make no mistake, there’s no solution here. I’m still bored, mind you.

But at least after this, my eternal compass will be set towards color, flavor, and beauty—in this world or a world yet to be seen.

Usually, I write to forget. With this, I write to remember.