There is nothing unusual about the day. Except for the fact that my cable feed has been interrupted for some strange reason and I am watching a blank blue screen. No eye candy. No mental stimulation but my own alive imagination. Sunday morning huh? Not a good sign for the rest of the week.
Boredom moves in like a flood, and rises quickly to tsunami proportions. Many Sundays ago I would have been lying wrapped in arms that once formed an encricling band of love around me -- arms that promised to do so eternally, as they are wont to do. They urged me to stay even while I struggled to be free. And then they were gone.
And years before that I'd be up early primping and prettfying for my weekly appearance before God in his sanctuary. Trotting to church without knowing why. From the middle of a bed cluttered with scholarly appurtenances and other paraphernalia emptied from the Bermuda Triangle that serves as a pocketbook, a face tired with restfulness looks Godward for a sign.
Are you out there somewhere Daddy? Watching over me all these years? And have you hooked up with Lesly and Althea and Orna and Grans and Rory?
The list of people I know out there gets longer with time and I am no closer to the truth. I look at the telephone willing it to ring but it resists. Maybe I should call him? But would he be quiet and just let me be? Tom Joyner, how about that? He's funny. But no, he's not a Sunday person. I could read a book but Sister Souljah is not really a Sunday book. Toni Morrison - too deep for Sunday and real Sunday books will do nothing to relieve boredom. Eat perhaps? Nah. Too boring.
So here I am writing about boredom and literally putting myself to sleep. Yawn.
© KP Lewis (Kalypsoul)