Boredom

I can’t be bothered. Words aren’t measured by the metre, my friend, and not even by metro would I visit you. I can’t be bothered. Life bores me, the thought of death tires me, and writing makes my fingers ache. I can’t be bothered. I’ll never be a musician or a singer, nor a poet nor a writer, not even a hero or a villain, just ill. Diseased. A disaster already born. An accident already happened. A child. I can’t be bothered. It seems you don’t understand that there’s no way back, no road to take. But I know, and I accept my fate. I know. And knowing bores me. Knowing. Knowing happens to me. It’s just a day without memory, I can’t even be bothered it’s just a life without story, an insomnia without sleep, a night awake, without will, a body lying down, without age, without memory, without return. I can’t be bothered. (I can’t be bothered.) I can’t be bothered.