Living in a surfing suburb, I am often aware of groups of people of all ages who gather ostensibly to watch the surf.[27] The bigger and more dangerous the surf, the more people will gather and watch it. But there’s a limit to how long you can focus on huge waves crashing near the shore. Isn’t the reality that these people have completely zoned out[28] and are simply using the surf as an excuse to stare into space? If you asked them why they’re staring at the sea they’d come up with a host of answers, many of which might have the ring of truth.[29] Sure, the colour and drama of a roiling ocean is a sight to behold, but who’s going to admit that really, they’ve been loafing on the beach with an empty thought bubble hovering over their heads? [30]
Boredom in the workplace is something else, of course. Here every moment has hovering over it the question-mark of time passing.
This kind of boredom sucks the life from you. It has none of the hallmarks of the grand boredom that I’m after—the sort with a rousing soundtrack as you emerge from the darkness of sloth into the light of inspiration.[31] The sort that illuminates new questions: Why not go and live in another country? Why shouldn’t I write a novel? That sort of boredom is the equivalent of a long bath with French soap and frangipani flowers floating on the surface;[32] something so relaxing and pleasurable that you really don’t want it to end. And yet, when the bathwater has cooled and the flowers have gone mushy, you’re happy to lift your glowing self from the tub and move forward into the stream of life with renewed vigour.[33] Such is la vie d’ennui.
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