Bored. Bored with everything. Looking in the mirror, eyeliner on, eyeliner off; hair up hair down; hat on hat off; this dress that dress these shoes those shoes this scarf that one…the eyeliner’s over four years old. Liquid. ‘Absolute Brown’. Rimmel London. Made in Germany.
Lipstick, crimson red: there is none. None at all. In any colour.
Stepping up high onto the edge of the bath, balancing on the slippery acrylic to see the reflection. The mirror’s not big enough so it’s the only way to see anything other than a disconnected head and shoulders. Do you do that? Up and down up and down.
12:30. Am. Trousers. What about them? On. Off. Still no idea who this person is. Other than a right pain in the arse. 5 minutes later sat in bed and still bored with it all: everything, this life and its endless inconsequential nothingness. It makes no difference what you wear. So you don’t know who you are…be someone different every day, every hour of every day if you like. Who cares? No-one cares. And who says it’s your clothes that define you, express your personality, anyway? It’s all bollocks. Maybe it’s your books that define you. Or the rotting mushrooms shoved to the back of the salad drawer in your fridge.
This bed has had single occupancy for years and years: as empty as the life of the person that endures it. Being alone isn’t just heartbreaking, being faced with it every time you wake up, feeling powerless to change it, is getting really boring.
Cooking, eating? There’s no motivation to eat, no pleasure in it. It’s just something you do to keep your heart beating. Dry bread every day, it doesn’t matter.
Making art used to be a way of making meaning, being part of human culture…isn’t culture what makes us human? There would be something tangible to leave behind that defined my place in the world at a particular point in time (I woz ere). My life would have context and would still be living on hundreds of years down the line. But eventually the sun will die, we’ll have killed each other, or a meteor will have wiped us out…so what’s the point? Does it matter if I make art or not? I haven’t got the energy to think about it anyway. Art is about thinking.
And sewing quilts, what’s that about? That’s about being part of the millions of unrecognised women throughout history quietly marking their presence, not letting you forget they were here powerless, voteless, oppressed, and still singing with creativity. But lifting a needle feels like lifting a worn and battered anvil.
Cycling just reminds me I’m alone, and walking too. I close my eyes and sleep. Just sleep. All day in this empty bed.
Changing medication is a boring waiting game.
Are you bored?
- A bumper list of things to do when you’re bored
- Are Artists Bored by their Work?