Bloated toad

It’s this feeling of tedium, X tells me, that’s what he circles around, isn’t it? That’s what he returns to over and over despite himself. Or rather, it’s what returns to him, to us. Surrounds us. Just sits there waiting for us, for nothing. There’s an interlude sometimes, he says, when he’s drunk, or just getting drunk and words come to him, sounds that sink in and break it up. But usually he’s just getting to the right stage and wanting more, even if he’s had more than is good for him: chasing himself out of tedium. There are images for it, he supposes, pointless and inaccurate images. Sunday suburb. A cat’s stupor. Grey sky. Stagnant ditch. The spell of emptiness. Emotionless emotion, restless rest. Limbo. The emptiness between movements and sounds, between his words, always lying in wait for nothing, lazily, always just there and never really there, since if it were it wouldn’t be empty, wouldn’t be tedious. You must feel it too, he tells me, come clean for once. Or are you responsible for it? Whatever, it still sits there, like a toad, like a bloated toad in a stagnant pond.

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One response to “Bloated toad

  1. notesfromaroom

    Tedium… To think without thinking, but with the weariness of thinking; to feel without feeling, but with the anxiety of feeling; to shun without shunning, but with the disgust that makes one shun — all of this is in tedium, but is not tedium itself, being at best a paraphrase or translation of it.

    — Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (trans. R. Zenith)

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