Bore beetle

Life is boring a lot of the time. Reading emails from nobody, replying to nobody about the nothing; queuing to buy groceries you’ll only ingest and dispose of in a way so disgusting nobody ever talks about it; travelling to and from places of little or no consequence.

People don’t want to read that. You don’t want to live it. Why should anyone want to relive it through your writing?

Is writing a hole through which we can escape, or just a mirror, in our prison cell?

Because if you think it the mirror, in which we can examine ourselves, then if you want to write honestly, of life, as it actually is, do you not have to include the boredom?

Maybe not. Maybe the art of a great writer is finding how to write of the minutiae in a way that is engaging and true.

What do I care, I’m only writing this out of a self imposed compulsion, on a boring journey to somewhere quite interesting.

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