Today's poem

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,

Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

--John Berryman - Dream Song 14

I do not like to admit I'm bored, because *I* always felt it meant I have no inner resources. Today I seem to be lacking inner resources. I can't exactly say why, maybe because I am, for some reason, exhausted. Maybe because today's work tasks are so routine that I have to stifle a yawn just thinking about them.

When I am at home, I am never bored.