It’s our habit to think of
Pain when we think of boredom,
And of good times when we think of nostalgia
However, I almost prefer
Boredom to nostalgia — the selective amnesia
Where we just remember the good times
On the surface, when what we really
Really remember are those days
Especially in the childhood,
When, say, an elder sibling bullied us
Or parents scolded us unfairly
Or the times when we anxiously looked
Out of the train window, on the platform
And heaved a sigh of relief when dad
Got onto the train (which now we know
He would have anyways)
Or such stupid little incidences
That hardly give any meaning to our life.
No more than the boredom anyways.
I prefer the plain old boredom,
That springs from knowing
For instance, that
Dads will board trains in time
Predictably, every single time
It helps me to cope with the
Equally predictable workday.
I can do without nostalgia.