I am bored.
I’d love to claim some higher emotion, some deep-seated righteous indignation or even some great universal truths that my confinement has enabled me, uniquely, to see. Right now I just can’t be bothered with all that. I have ceased to question why I am here, or why they bothered to interrogate me. This is not a rational response to the insuperability of such questions, but an inability to motivate myself to think any more.
It is an odd kind of boredom. It is devoid of anticipation - as when waiting for a bus or the childish boredom at the end of a long Summer, waiting for term to start. It is devoid of anger – somehow the injustice washes over me. It is devoid of guilt– thoughts are fruitless here; I am a boredom-self-apologist.
Waiting implies expectation of future events. I do not wait; I sit.
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