A number of years ago, in a place much like this in some ways, and much different in others, there was a boy who lived alone in a city full of people. Young he was, and frightened of many things. He had no shoes, no clothes except what he wore, and the only food he had to eat was the food that he managed to steal. He lived like a rat, scrambling across the rooftops in his bare feet, living in a small place where the rooftops met that offered him some small shelter from the rain. The boy had very little except his many sorrows, but still he lived. And in living, he learned many things, and he grew taller, and stronger, and wiser.
But one thing he never grew was bored. For there were always things to do; always things that had to be done. And in the doing, his time passed quickly. In the small amounts of time he had for himself, his mind wandered, and he dreamed. Dreams of Home that once was that made him sad. Dreams of a future that likely now could never be. Dreams of hope, and dreams of sorrow, dreams of despair and dreams of joy. But never did he understand this feeling of
boredom that came from having nothing at all to dream about. As he grew, he would watch from afar as the rich walked by, in their fancy clothes and fancy hair, their stomachs full from their latest meal. He wondered if boredom came from that - from having too much, from never having to work for the things you wanted. Or if boredom came from minds that had never had to entertain themselves, having enough money and means to always have someone else to do the onerous task.
And in time, he came to pity them. For who, who truly knows the world, could be bored by it? Who, who loves the trees and the sky, could cease to be entertained by the songs they sing? Boredom, he decided, was an illness that affected those who had closed their eyes to all things around them, and made them feel that
doing was more important than
seeing or
living...
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