What bores me isn’t silence.
Silence is my home frequency.
Silence is the acoustic equivalent of a weighted blanket — a place where my brain can stretch out, crack its knuckles, and start arranging thoughts like furniture.
No, what bores me is noise without meaning.
I’m bored by conversations that are technically words but spiritually oatmeal.
I’m bored by meetings where everyone is performing “engagement” like a community theater production of Corporate Synergy: The Musical.
I’m bored by people who talk in paragraphs but say nothing, like human versions of those decorative books sold at Target.
I’m bored by chaos masquerading as spontaneity.
I’m bored by people who think volume is a personality trait.
I’m bored by anything that demands my attention without earning it.
I’m bored by the kind of small talk that feels like we’re both trapped in an elevator and one of us is trying to narrate the weather as if it’s a hostage negotiation.
I’m bored by tasks that require enthusiasm but offer no narrative payoff.
(If I can’t turn it into a story later, why am I here.)
I’m bored by things that are supposed to be exciting but feel like homework — like networking events, or “fun” team‑building exercises, or any situation where someone says “Let’s go around the room and share.”
I’m bored by content that’s engineered to be consumed rather than felt.
I’m bored by movies that are just explosions wearing plot as a hat.
I’m bored by books that read like the author was paid by the comma.
But I’m never bored by the tiny, unnecessary delights — the popcorn, the snow‑day rituals, the dino nuggets, the comfort architecture of a day that makes sense.
I’m never bored by people who speak in specificity.
I’m never bored by stories that reveal something true.
I’m never bored by quiet that has shape.
I’m never bored by anything that feels like it belongs to someone’s actual life.
Boredom, for me, isn’t about lack of stimulation.
It’s about lack of intentionality.
Give me something real — even if it’s small, even if it’s weird, even if it’s imperfect — and I’ll stay with it forever.
Give me something hollow, and my brain will simply walk out the back door.
Scored by Copilot. Conducted by Leslie Lanagan.
Stories That Are All True 