I Love You (But You’re Boring)



In Response to a social media comment.

 «I Love You (But You’re Boring) »*

Boring comes under the same heading as banal, necessity, society. It is cultivated like a neutraliser of the extra-ordinary. It is a bubble of glue morphing the chaos into cerebral order to bring all ends to the middle ground…and who has called it the cradle of mediocrity? We fall into boredom to desensitise ourselves from the intensity of the strangeness that permeates the background of everyday life like a radiation containing the signs of a terrifying outcome echoing an even more terrifying birth. We curl up in the soggy wooliness of morbid lassitude, snoring our way to mundane salvation. We yarn, no sooner has the marginal intruder, issued from our very moonscape, dared to dislodge us out of our meat sofa, to fend off any insurgence from the backyard of our mind; a mournful somnolence takes over us, tenderising us into some formless dough. And have we not been warned to stay clear of profundity, the devourer of rational survivors?

We humans are boring until we stray from the straight path. Yes, the sudden curve might lead to some dark alley, but, whoa, there is a light at the end of this tunnel, the adventure of a lifetime. Mark my word, it is worth the candle, and burn it does, as bright as a thousand suns, right there, in the unchartered region of self we sometimes refer to, in our poetic moments as “My Soul”. But, “Hey” they insist…”Keep your eye on the smart metre, the soul is a fallacy”. Time to choose I guess. If humans are boring, and life is anything but…what does it make us? Nothing more boring than a corpse, no matter how well built, well perfumed or well dressed. The choice is this: To produce or to create. And since the brain is mortal while the mind is not, we have a clear winner. Then what is the problem?

Words however won’t change ‘boring’ into ‘wondrous’, even if we understand their meaning. I have seen extraordinary persons fall in the trap of soothing normalisation, and how easy it is to choose boring in another to dilute the despair of loneliness. Someone said to me women want adventure not boredom, that’s why she chose me. But somewhere along the line, she opted for boring and I continued the adventure alone. This was not a tragedy, but liberation. We must also accept the weaknesses of our love, whom we love and whom we must leave because we love them knowing the extra in us is as deadly to them, at that moment in their life, as their dreamless sleep is deadly to us. They will wake, but without us, not because of us. I am never bored by myself, but I sure bore cynics to death; perhaps I do them a favour.

Has anyone been heard to say: ”I am tired of your inner beauty?” Yet, it is a fact. Those who decide yet quite unconsciously to slumber into normality will find anyone out of the norm a bore…tiresome, overbearing, dispensable. The boredom machine grinds spirit like the chocolate grinder grinds cocoa. So humans bore one another, as they bore into each other. Then we bore holes to burry our insufferable differences. But soon, boredom turns sour, the voice, then the breath of the other become intolerable, the mere thought of this other who once was part of us, becomes a weight too many. What once was a tumultuous river drags us downward like quick sand. Then we realise…”I had not loved you until now, now I understand our incompatibility, now I see clearly into the shadow of our past, and what I thought I loved was what I imagined in you, and now it is you I see, and the lie I created out of you. This boredom is an abyss of mutual incomprehension.“ Then, it stops. Silence replaces the massive black hole of reciprocal aversion. You stop digging for a truth that neither belongs to you nor concerns you. You separate yourself from an illusion. You no longer blame them for your exasperation. You disentangle your strings from theirs, and slowly and gently exit the scene.

Boredom carries disgust, and breeds hatred. It mirrors a malcontent ego. When depressed, we fall into this hole. Boredom reveals a lack in us…a lack of will and a lack of substance. So we fill this hole with ready-made ideals, with romantic trash, intellectual mirages, political hubris, synthetic satin hearts, flowers, love letters, or souvenirs, piling up, clogging up your lungs, clouding your eyes with tears, because all this effort leads to nothing but more of what you attempt to escape or cover up

And you know how boring all that is, not only to the other, but also to yourself.

Then you emerge on the other side of the boredom, having dug a hole the whole way through. There is no one there, and you know this is where they are on the opposite side. This is where life begins without boredom, without the burden of a mutually exclusive lie.


  • Songwriters: Dave Rotheray / Paul Heaton
  • Copyright © Pascal Ancel Bartholdi 2018