Boredom (A Weird Tale Of Sanity And Isolation)

Boredom

Bored.
Boring.
Boredom.
B O R E D O M.
The meaning of these words has long since decayed in my mind and have necessarily been superseded by a vocabulary still to be described. That is not to say that an attempt has not been mounted. Amongst my various contrivances exist such luminous examples as enterkenos, langanuir and nagendalaust. Nezavazel remains my personal favourite. However, I believe it safe to settle upon boredom as the term most familiar to you, my reader, in which to convey my current and consuming preoccupation.

Also, allow me one last caveat. I am all too uncomfortably aware of my stylistic  ramblings, unnecessary verbosity and down-right-oral-dysentery. Time, being a luxury I possess in abundance, lends itself readily to revision, expansion and even exaggeration of a sort. Do not allow this to lead you to believe I have fabricated any part of this narrative. On the contrary, it would be difficult to overstate the sensations resultant of my circumstances, however it would be near impossible to accurately convey them without an amplification of the minutiae which surround me in this prison.

Prison is perhaps unfair.

I am wholly here by choice and with great compliance on my part to play my role to its conclusion. Perhaps Cell is the more apt epithet for my abode.
How long ago it was since I was laid here - a sleeper - now seems rather unclear. Without window or watch the passage of time as I perceive it may be much less than my reckoning, which is solely divined through the division of my rations into four distinct meals either side of sleep. The fallibility of such a system is not lost on me of course. I readily accept that the situation has undoubtedly corrupted my natural circadian rhythm and that my perception of night and day may wax and wane according to my mental state at any given moment.

The light is always on.

Although I welcome its glow within its capacity to illuminate my regular routine and for its constant permission to continue this account: It mocks me.
Occasionally it will flicker and dim and in its absence a new light, one of desperate hope will ignite within me. Hope at the possibility of an hours' or even a mere minutes' rest from its perpetual glare. It will fade just long enough to bolster my spirits before humming cruelly back to life and filling every crevice and cranny of my cell and cells with its searing gaze.
At times I seethe and boil with rage. I spit and shout and swear. I utter words I am too ashamed to repeat here during my moments of lucidity and even shudder to recall them silently within the walls of my own skull.

Suffering, I have known. Yet a great purpose maintains me. It nourishes me and not infrequently lifts the dead weight of deep melancholy from upon my shoulders. When finally I am called upon, when the hour is right and my co-conspirators are in greatest need I shall play my part as only I am able. A name, the signal and an open door will unleash me into the world and it is that very world that will be forever changed by my action.
Meanwhile, I wait.
Time is a precious gift and one not to be squandered. Future generations will recognise my contribution and this place may even pass into pilgrimage. A shrine of sorts, to the turning point in our great and noble struggle.

It is for this reason and at great costs to myself that I laboriously record each and every detail of my 'hibernation.'
My medium is scarce and I am not so reckless as to begin this document on a whim or with little or no consideration for its wider implication. Each sentence, syllable and stress will one day be examined down to its finest detail and due chiefly to the indelible nature of the words I must inscribe the greatest care has been taken considering their composition.

Long before the fine point of my blade makes its first incision in my surroundings each and every word will be scrutinised.
Once more I find that language fails me and the vocabulary available falls flat on its awkward and cumbersome face. Indeed 'scrutinise' falls far from describing the delicate dissection I undertook of each and every word. The contextual examination of every detail to ensure that no meaning was ever misinterpreted of a chain of letters nor the punctuation that links them and finally the ineradicable totality of the mass they bind.
Thus this monologue was crafted, memorised and refined within my mind many, many times over before I allowed myself to begin the final inscription you are reading now.

Boredom.

Again the language is inadequate and summons to mind a negativity. Most are loathe to be bored. A boring person is the most detestable and boredom itself a malady to be avoided or instantly cured if contracted.

But look. Look closely at the words you are reading. Could any mind otherwise engaged -  no doubt by the mundanity of everyday subsistence - have conceived of such a work?

The answer is no.

Boredom is the very breath of inspiration that whispers encouragement in my ears. When the light torments me, when the stench of my piled excrement offends who is it that propels me to complete this task?

B O R E D O M

If I had not but my single purpose, one which may be far away from my temporal grasp to execute, then I would surely have numbed my mind with inane activity. I am the most fortunate of revolutionaries. My mission is clear and concise and my motivation unclouded. Meantime my art may occupy me.

Art it is and of an exact nature.

Already I have enlightened you as to my level of preparedness and so I continued. Before I began these six surfaces surrounding me required some attention. They needed to be smoothed,  painstakingly measured and marked evenly into a grid. Only faintly, only to guide me. Once satisfied with its uniform division I allow my thoughts to leave the haven of my mind where they have been cared for as tenderly as any child and fixed into their precise order.

This part is the easiest.

With a self assuredness most will never possess I make my first marks. Never rushing and never allowing the emotion of the occasion to overwhelm me.
At times I find myself terrified by my steely determination, by the being I have become and of the feats I am now capable. I am unrecognisable as the creature that entered this room countless many days ago. Isolation has honed me as sharp as the knife which engraves these letters.

Once the walls, floor and ceiling are filled with my stream of consciousness respite yet evades me.
The stone is grey, dull and lifeless. I must inject it with something. Something of my life and vitality. It lacks the energy to properly evoke the emotion necessary to grab its reader by the shoulders and shake them violently until they realise the momentousness of what has come to pass here.
Colour and with it heart, are sorely lacking.
The sole pigment I have at my disposal is a deep red and I use it sparingly as I have much relief to fill. This ink is the power that courses through me, gives me life and now passes it into prosperity.
The toll is heavy.
I am greatly exhausted by the effort.
Once satisfied of completion I lay my self down, weak from exertion, to regain my strength and await my trigger.

It will come soon and never has one been so ready.

Note: These words, amongst others, were found carved into the wall of what is commonly referred to as 'The Tomb of the Failed Assassin.' Her desiccated remains were found inside a secret chamber hidden behind the bedroom walls of our Glorious Leader during refurbishments of The Palace. Found amongst her possessions were several sealed ration jars and a very badly blunted knife.

Its is generally assumed that she was secreted there during the failed rebellion of forty years ago. Upon closer forensic examination the dark pigment used to fill the graven letters appears to have been the 'assassins' own blood.