As a child, I did my assignments with diligence. My head honed in to the duties like a telescope, rejecting all that would interfere with responsibility from its range. Perhaps I traversed along a treacherous path or brushed against the bad branches of the oak tree in the midst of my free fall, but as I've grown older, I've lost my drive. I try to take that tunnel-vision trail I so effortlessly strolled on in my youth, but I finish by spinning in circles, for I stand behind a blockade of barricading distraction. I can turn off my phone, my television, my computer with the simple touch of a switch, yet I cannot disengage from my mind. As a child, my imagination was praised, but it has turned to a vice from a virtue since I lost my ability to concentrate. To my misfortune, intricate daydreams and metaphysical ponderings are not secure locations to find sanctuary in during the storms of boredom. Therefore, I must take advantage of every pretty picture, every stunning sky, every insignificant occurrence of daily life, and romanticize it in times of repetitiveness. In stages of stillness, my mind meticulously crafts the sidetracking stimulation necessary to prevent boredom. Perhaps, I should embrace the oxymoron, for I must be truly distracted to concentrate.
