crashing on boredom

What is this feeling we call boredom?
— was it always a paradox?
should be; life is in the roots
in the air — zigzagging between the nodes
in some membranous digits
and some pockets
the chemistry of boredom can only be measured
when you have really lived; or vicariously searched
through the folders of lives in some others’ kitchens
— the image, the simulacrum — those bread crumbs
that led you to some candied house — were you some
anorexic dandy fidgeting on some other street
tiptoeing through the woods
and the urban sprawls
you seem like a nightingale; singing some memory
of a future. Your posterity begins, when you fold boredom
and piecemeal it with the wings — you know you are borne
and bound to take off — outside yourself and inside yourself
ennui is a happenstance; struggle the happiness.▬

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