There’s a horrible reality that at times, you get bored with people. I’m finding myself experience that more and more and I think that my underlying disinterest with people is aiding my descent into having a much smaller group of people that I can call friends. It’s like when you’re a kid and you love the old Thomas the Tank Engine show but now years on, even the thought of Ringo Starr’s narration sends you to sleep. The sensation is strange as you can remember the days when these people were interesting and you had all the time in the world for them but now their company has become as much of a chore as watching a kettle boil.
I don’t know if I’m alone in that but recently I’ve come to see that it’s becoming a real problem. Of the thousands of people we meet in our lifetimes it seems only a mere handful are worth paying attention to. Vladimir Propp and Tzvetan Todorov understood years ago there are only so many characters and stories to find. While our tastes differ and we all see something interesting in different people, there can surely only be so many times we, as human beings, can stomach repeats. I’ve found personally, that I have a very limited tolerance for reruns. It can turn an attraction into an irritation – which in turn can be a problem itself because when investigating why there’s an irritation that can turn into attraction again, creating an enormous shit spin cycle. I’ve witnessed people who I found captivating morph into dull dishwater before my eyes throughout a period as short as a conversation about pillow covers.
Maybe it’s a symptom of the modern world, growing up on a television culture where I require constant mental stimulation or I’ll start to die like a pudgy, slovenly shark. Yet, to blame society again is just another excuse that has served as a get-out clause for many an arsehole the world over. There’s a guilty feeling that you get in your gut made even worse when you feel that person, quickly turning just another faceless, boring television extra, is starting to warm to you as you did to them. It could probably be helped with relying some more on the superego than the id which tells every fibre of my being to run away. That bit of self-help is unfortunately impossible with the id being a subconscious and wild animal that can only be identified after it has torn through the china shop of our lives.
I really think we all need to probably accept that as a collective because it’s the conclusion I’ve come to: our lives, like our history, exists trapped in a cosmic Disneyland tea cups ride. It’s garish, nauseating and gives you whiplash but, inexplicably, we’re always holding out for an eternally interesting Mad Hatter to bring some twisted sense to it all.