Reading is Boring
I know, it sounds like a phrase from a rebellious kid who wants to spend all his time in front of video games.
The fact is, for me, reading is just boring.
Don’t get me wrong, I read enough: my problem is that I don’t have patience.
I’m used to the fast pace of those same video games I loved when I was a rebellious kid.
I’m used to the intensity of thriller and drama films, the rawness of horror movies, and the morbidness that characterizes all the productions of recent years.
I’m used to it, and it’s hard to go against what a habit makes you: lazy.
Laziness is the main enemy of joy, at least in my case.
Often, being constantly “drained,” without stimuli, makes me want to find motivation everywhere, even where and when it’s not worth looking for it.
When laziness sets in, boredom paints everything gray. It’s much worse than fog because at least the fog in Monet’s paintings had its own refined beauty.
The boredom I’m talking about isn’t melancholy; it’s anger. It’s dissatisfaction. It’s a seed of malice and unkindness towards life and others.
It’s a slow descent into the quicksand of a tenuous existence, and at the same time, it’s a mirage.
It takes little: just facing this boredom is enough to realize how ephemeral it is, thankfully!
Usually, when I notice I’m overwhelmed, I grab a pair of comfortable shoes and my car keys, then I start wandering through the countryside.
How beautiful the countryside is. It makes me understand that the opposite of this boredom isn’t “doing something,” but being able to wait.
In the end, the difference is the same as that between hope and despair.
Ultimately, I do enjoy reading.
Even if it’s boring, it’s not always easy, and often it’s less fun than playing a video game or watching a movie or a series.
It takes quite a bit of effort; you need to develop a minimum of ritual, and above all, you have to open yourself to it: while you read, it’s the book that writes its story inside you.