A burnt-out case

I took a trip to conquer my boredom, but I still woke up bored every day. Torpor descended on me. I passed through hot countries. I saw nothing but sand and dust and restaurants. Like the dust boredom was everywhere: it covered me if I didn’t keep moving. But there was nothing to escape from or to. There was nothing to do but force the hands of time by drinking. I told the hours by the number of bottles I drank. No one talked to me in the bars, and why should they? Did I want them to? I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t distinguish my desire from despair. I was spending money left and right and had plenty to spare but I felt destitute. I walked through churches to maintain my guise as a tourist. Sitting in the pews reading brochures I thought that heaven itself must be deathly dull – in the long run. I thought the gods themselves must be bored half to death by having to exist for all eternity – so bored that they prod us into action when we start to remind them of themselves.