Boredom makes you do all sorts of strange things.
Boredom can be very tiring when it lasts only a few moments. But even if
it lasted for centuries, it always ends eventually. And what if there's boredom but no time?
It's not about "there's no time" when current activities fill it completely, because
then there's no boredom. It's about "there's no time" when time doesn't exist. If
time doesn't exist, there's not even hope that boredom will pass. If time is a point,
boredom fills its entire space. Boredom is everywhere and everything. And everything is
boring.
When he realized this, he was terrified. How could he be bored forever?
So boredom fills everything? So nothing will ever change? There was only one way
to change what is unchangeable. So he took a point that contained all
events and stretched it into an infinite straight line. And a certain order was created, and
a proper sequence was assigned to everything. That was time. And he thought that time was
good because now it had a future, and it didn't have to be a boring future.
Although all the moments that comprised time originated from a single point
, not all were equal. Change became the measure of
duration. And since duration existed in time, and time passed, the future could be different from
the present. Boredom could therefore vanish.
After some time had passed, he noticed that something else
was missing in this order. Time itself was good because something was finally changing. But it also had its
weaknesses, for it was not malleable. It was rigid, inexorable, and consistently pushed forward
. Constantly in only one direction. And the only thing it changed was itself. And then
it dawned on him again.
And space became.
Not just any ordinary space—empty and undefined. It became a
filled, material space. It became a tangible space. A space that changed
over time, and which he could change himself. A malleable space. So he immersed himself in it
and began to shape it. And he felt that this was good, because the joy that
enveloped him left no room for boredom.
So he shaped the space and, every now and then, paused to gaze at
it. He gazed and marveled. And he thought that if he created such wonders, it meant he was
a creator. And since these wonders were beautiful, he believed, it meant he was also an artist. And from then on,
that was how he decided to call himself. I am a creator, he thought, I am the one who creates. And
once again, he passionately set about creating. He gathered matter by the handful and formed it.
It formed into shapes large and small. Then he watched them persist in space, wander, meet
, drift apart, and change.
This observation made him realize that creating shapes is boring. The more
he created them, the more bored he would become, because their changes led to no
purpose. Their sole purpose was to testify to the passage of time through their changing
duration. So he delved deep within himself and began to search for what he was missing. And this time,
revelation, like a bolt of lightning, unfailingly struck his fiery self.
In each of us, at the bottom of consciousness, hidden and lurking, lies
something mysterious. Although it doesn't reveal itself in everyone, it persists there, burrowing, taking root, and
sprouting. Sometimes it dies in childhood, but sometimes it persists into adulthood,
turning us into eccentrics or hobbyists. Small children play with
electric train carriages. Adults create models with stations, trees, houses, rivers.
Each according to their own abilities.
So he created the railway.
And once again, he was happy, for he enjoyed it immensely. He created tracks, stations,
platforms, locomotives, carriages, semaphores, and everything else that might be
useful on the railway. And he traveled for days, gazing out the window of his compartment and admiring
the views he had once created. And he was very pleased with himself, because even in his dreams
, he had never imagined that he would one day create something so beautiful. So he traveled wherever he could
and back, rejoicing like a small child.
He enjoyed the railway, he enjoyed the world, and he enjoyed time. He also enjoyed
the fact that, although as a creator, he was everywhere, thanks to the railway, he could go anywhere.
He even wondered at times if the existence of the railway didn't bring him greater joy than
the existence of his own being. But even the greatest joy cannot be complete without
someone to share it with.
So he created... a man. A man. An ordinary, normal, middle-
aged man. With a hooked nose and short hair. A man sitting opposite him
, looking out the window. And he felt something very strange, because until then he had always been alone.
And now he was no longer alone, and it was a very strange feeling. But he felt that he was
even happier now. Because he knew that now he could talk to him about the railway, about the beauty
of the world, about joy, about nothing, about everything. He could even not talk. He realized
that until now he hadn't talked either, but before he created this man, he hadn't
talked alone. Now he could not talk to anyone. It was one thing when there was no
one to open his mouth to, and quite another when he didn't want to open those mouths. Silence was one thing, and
Another silence.
So he waited a moment to taste this silence, and it seemed
loud to him. Perhaps not very loud, but certainly louder than silence. But he hadn't
created to be silent. So he uttered his first words:
"Where are you going?"
The words dissolved into space, filling every crevice. Two simple
words flew forward like a freed bird. They flowed through space,
connecting it with time through their resonance. And he felt that speech, too, brought him
joy.
"Actually, I'm not sure," the man replied, turning away from the window. "
We're in the mountains, so I think we're going to the sea. Because it's not the mountains, since I'm already here.
" "Right," the creator nodded. "We're in the mountains, so
you're most likely going to the sea.
" "Although..." the man paused for a moment, "we still have plains.
Isn't that right?
" "Yes, we have plains.
" "And hills.
" "And hills," the creator confirmed again.
"So maybe I'm not going to the sea after all?" "Maybe I'm going to the plains, the hills, or even
to work," the man remarked revealingly, and then pondered this for a moment.
"Maybe," the creator agreed. He also concluded that the conversation was at least
stupid. Maybe not stupid enough to stop a plane in mid-air, but
stupid enough to knock down a tree, strip the plaster off a medium-sized apartment building, or
derail a loaded domestic freight train. And that was what bothered him most, because
he liked trains. So he decided to introduce something new into the conversation.
His previous interlocutor was too similar to him, and yet he should
be looking for what was missing, for a complement. Well, we learn from mistakes, after all.
So, for a change, he decided to create his own opposite, a missing element,
a complement. Not what he was, but what he lacked.
And a woman emerged. A bit like a man, of a similar age, yet
different. She was a woman, after all. Perhaps a little imperfect, but who is perfect? Besides, she was the first woman he had created, so he could forgive her and his own
imperfections . "Where are you going?" the woman asked the man. Enough, the creator thought, this dialogue must be nipped in the bud. Several stupid lines had already been said in this section today, and there was no point in repeating them a second time. He reconsidered everything he had created and concluded that if there was a time now and a time later, then there had also been a time before. So he gave them the past.
"To the seaside," the man replied. "I'm going to relax a bit. You understand,
work, the city, the noise. I need to get away from it all. The weather has turned nice, so
I'm going to the seaside.
" "Yes, yes. I understand. You know, I'm fed up with it all too. It's
just work, work, work. You don't have time to take care of yourself. And then there's this
crime. There are thieves and robbers everywhere. Did you hear about that
shooting in the capital recently? Apparently, someone was killed. And it was probably some criminal.
Who would feel sorry for someone like that? Besides, sir, where aren't they shooting now?
There was a shooting here too recently. Someone planted a bomb or something. I don't know, because I'm
not really interested in that. He's dead too. But no one feels sorry for him either. He beat his wife,
threatened his neighbors. People like that should be arrested immediately. But who's going to do that? The police
are bribed too. And they just keep going around in circles. And instead of dealing with it, these politicians of ours
are running around the world. Do you know how much I'd have to save
up to fly? And one-way, I'm not talking about the return. And how can I even
save anything? Train tickets aren't cheap either. How can you bear it all?
You'd love to travel here and there, but there's no need for it. Do you know how much you can
see by train?" She paused for a moment to take another breath, and
a small tear rolled down her cheek.
"Calm down," he said quietly. "That's life. You can always
walk. "
Although the sight of a crying woman isn't exactly pleasant, the creator was
pleased with how it ended. He was afraid he'd messed up with her creation
, and once she started talking, it would stay that way forever. Fortunately, things turned out differently, and he didn't
have to intervene. Something else surprised him. He couldn't understand how he
'd given this woman such a past. Was there really nothing there to
delight her? Where did crime, airplanes, and all these things come from? He didn't
remember creating anything like that. And the worst part was the expensive
train tickets
. "Is it really that hard? Shootings, planes, train ticket prices?" he asked.
The woman was wiping her nose with a tissue.
"Sir, is it hard? Of course it is. But a person can survive anything.
I'm sorry, I just felt so sad. And where exactly are you going?
" "Me?" the creator was embarrassed, because he didn't know where he was going. "To the sea,"
he replied intuitively. If everyone's taking this train to the seaside, it means that
He did too. Because where else could he take a train to the seaside?
"Right," the woman replied, even smiling slightly. "To the seaside. Where
else could you take a train to the seaside if not to the seaside. And why
, if I may ask? What exactly do you do?
" "Actually, I do..." the creator began, again at a loss for an answer. He'd never
asked himself questions like: where are you going, why, what exactly are you
doing? But these people probably wouldn't be able to understand anyway. "I write a bit...
various stories," he replied.
"Screenplays?" the man asked intrigued.
"You could say that.
" "That's very interesting. Have you filmed anything of yours? Maybe I've already seen it?
" "Maybe I've seen something of yours?" the woman interjected. "Have you written a TV series?
You know, I really like TV series. They're so lifelike. It's a shame so few of them are shown
on television. But I don't even have time to watch them. You're always busy.
" "No, no. Actually, nothing of my scripts has been filmed yet. I'm just
getting started." I'm going to relax and unwind now. I'll try
to finish one while I'm at it, because I'm having a lot of trouble with it," the artist replied, thinking it was
the honest truth.
"And what, if I may ask, do you write about? Crime stories, horror films, melodramas?"
the man asked.
"Yes... Various things... Lately...
" "Did you write a melodrama?" the woman said. "Tell me."
"I can't," the artist said, seeking help. "You won't be interested in the film once it's made."
"So they're making it anyway. Tell me a fragment, or just a general idea of what it's about,"
the woman continued.
There was no way out. He had to somehow change the course of the conversation. Not only had
he allowed himself to be cornered, but the discussion was becoming increasingly boring. And that was
where it all started. Boredom had created this entire world. It was boredom he wanted
to escape from. So he decided to introduce something more complex,
more interesting, and engaging, he thought. And at the same time, he could
divert attention from himself.
"Well, Professor, are you going to the seaside too?" the woman asked the brand new
professor sitting next to the creator. "We all need a rest.
" "Actually, I'm not going there to relax. I work for a certain institution.
" "And what do you do there? You said you were a mathematician," the man said
.
"Just various things. I don't want to bore you. Just numbers and formulas."
"Well, I guess it's not that boring after all, since you've devoted your entire life to it,"
the man protested. "I guess there must be something engaging about it.
" "You know, it depends on what you like. I like counting, this guy writes...
" "Exactly," the woman interrupted. "You were supposed to tell us about your melodrama.
The professor would probably be happy to listen too. I think you like movies, Professor."
This was too much. Did she get into it? The conversation returned to those
unfortunate scenarios. Now he needed someone to occupy this disastrous
woman and allow him to talk to the professor or be silent. And not to return to
those scenarios.
So he created another ordinary man. Well, maybe not so
ordinary, because in his haste, he must have used too much material, or
he didn't shape it very carefully. So he ended up being fat and short. With small,
bulging eyes and no hair. But whatever. Nothing to worry about; he doesn't
have to be beautiful, as long as he keeps the woman talking."
"Oh, Mr. Photographer," the woman shouted, as the fat man actually had a camera
on his lap.
"Oh no, ma'am," he protested. "I'm not a photographer, and this isn't a camera.
At least, it's not an ordinary camera. It's a symbol, a relic, you could say.
" "And why a relic?" the man asked.
"Don't you know anything?" the fat man raised his eyebrows. The first rivulets
of sweat were streaming down his face. "Well, how could you possibly know? All information about us is
blocked in the media. But sir, you're all lucky to
have met me. Now you can learn everything; maybe your
eyes will finally be opened. I'm on my way to a meeting of the community of which I am a member,
a community of people who know that we are all the work of the Great Photographer.
Yes, yes, ma'am," he turned to the woman, who was speechless with astonishment
. "Not some painter, as these liars are trying to make us believe, but a photographer." He
is our sole creator and master, he created us and keeps
our negatives in his kingdom. And he will not let any harm come to us, because as soon as
something happens to one of us, he will call us back. Just as we are, just
as we were.
"Something similar," the woman whispered.
"He watches over us and takes care of us, he protects us. Not some painter. This is old
nonsense, with no logical basis anywhere. Can you paint the same person twice
? Of course not. Wake up, people. Even
The tradition of wedding portraits has long since vanished. What do people do at weddings these days?
A photograph. Yes, a photograph. This single photograph is witness to the fact that two people
have promised each other eternity, and nothing can change that. Photomontage should be
punishable. These conspirators hold all the power and see nothing wrong with it. But
we'll take care of this; it won't be long now. And when we gain power, we'll end
these heresies. We have to end this once and for all...
The fat man accelerated, shouting his slogans into the ear
of his neighbor, who listened with her mouth still open. The creator himself was amazed
at the nonsense his latest work was spouting. How had he invented it? The Great
Photographer and Painter. The sole creator and protector. What nonsense. After all, he is the only
true creator. Not a Photographer, Painter, or any other Writer, Sculptor,
Poet, or Director. He doesn't create art, but reality, and that's what art is:
to express reality. Without limits, genreless, true, complete. Ultimately,
it didn't matter. The most important thing was that the camera's owner had occupied the woman. He sat
listening now, and she nodded, repeating every now and then:
"Something like that. "
The artist settled back, finally able to relax. How nice it is when
something happens outside of my presence, he thought, I can finally rest a bit.
And talk to the professor, after all, that's why I created him.
"Why did you take up mathematics?" he asked.
"Me?" the professor turned away thoughtfully. "Oh, it just so happened. I've never had
an affinity for things like you." The artist was struck by this sentence, as he loved
trains and railways. Meanwhile, the professor continued: "Poems, books, music. That's not
for me. The only thing I knew how to do was count. So I learned to count because when I was
young, it was the right thing to do. And somehow it stuck. I count because I can't
do anything else. But it doesn't tire me at all. You know, it still gives me pleasure."
Mathematics is a strange science, seemingly abstract, detached from reality,
and yet nothing happens without it. That's why I like counting. All those numbers are
so cold, and yet in many situations they can capture the essence of the world.
"And you do nothing but count?
" "Not really," the professor agreed.
"Doesn't it bore you? Haven't you ever tried doing anything else? It must be
terribly monotonous.
" "Boredom, monotony? No, nothing like that. It's different every time. Besides, I already
told you. I can't do anything else. This isn't just counting. It's searching."
You can find many interesting things in sequences of numbers. Hidden pasts,
prophecies, sometimes even feelings. These aren't just additions. They're the shape of the world, its
movement, all its beauty. You, after all, also describe the world, just in a slightly
different, more vivid way. Why do you do this? Don't you like it?
"It's the same with me. I can't do anything else,"
the creator replied, and pondered for a moment. "But I have a slightly easier task; I can write whatever
I like, I don't have to stick to reality.
" "Yes, not reality, but conventions do. You can't manipulate
events as you please. You have to follow conventions, or else
you'll lose credibility. You're responsible for what you write.
" "Yes, I do. But ultimately, who knows to whom. I have to be responsible,
but I still feel more free than you.
" "You're responsible to all people. Just like me. You discover the world, and I do. We just both do it in different ways. But we both have to be careful, because everyone
can benefit from our discoveries . And it's to them that we answer."
And as for freedom?
It's true that science is more connected, it's exact. But I'm still aware
of many facts and events that other people have no idea about. I'm
aware of them and aware of their causes. That's why I feel free.
"Does being aware of the cage make you free?
" "It's not being aware of the cage," the professor replied with a smile. "Being aware of the cage
allows you to discover the principle that will allow you to escape it. I can discover this principle, though I don't
know if I'll be able to use it. But maybe someone will someday.
" "And jump from one cage to another," the creator interrupted.
"Maybe. We'll find out when we check. The most important thing is that we can search. It's the
driving force of our actions. And drive is movement. And movement, as I've already said, contains
most of the beauty of this world. You probably know this. After all, when you write,
it's just words on a page, but when what you write happens, even if only on a screen, it
can already be beautiful. I think you'll agree with me here.
" "Yes, I have to agree with you," the creator nodded. "The beauty of the world lies in
movement. "
"Oh! We have one here," the fat man's cry broke through. The Creator had already
forgotten about him. "It's people like him who conspire against us all and
brainwash us. They write whatever they want and control us like puppets. But it's time to
wake up. The beauty of the world certainly doesn't lie in motion. There's nothing more beautiful than
The statics of photography. It's time to end the lies, it's time to finally tell
everyone the truth. Photography is the most beautiful thing. Enough with the inventions of these
freeloaders. Professor, you're preying on human naivety, convincing others that
you're doing something useful. And you're only wasting our achievements, the achievements of ordinary
people.
"Wait a minute," the creator tried to protest. "But if it weren't for people like
the professor, cameras wouldn't even exist.
" "What are you talking about?" the fat man said indignantly, his face turning red. "That's a lie.
In the latest excavations, the ancestor of the modern camera was found
. And one that was created centuries before the birth of the first
professors. The camera wasn't invented. The camera was created. And that is the one,
indisputable truth. But why is it hidden? Because no one cares. Because
everything is ruled by these conspirators who try to take away our voices. But enough of this.
The great photographer will show us the way..."
The creator stopped listening again. He'd had enough of this nonsense. And he'd had enough of his
shouting. His face and his voice irritated him. Even the fat man's sweat irritated him.
His ideas irritated him because he didn't even know where he'd gotten them. He mentally scolded himself for
such hasty creation. So he just smiled slyly and mentally snapped
his fingers. And again, silence fell on the train. As if the fat man had never been
there at all. The professor was still sitting by the door, lost in thought, the man dozed
with his head bowed, only the woman sat with her mouth still open.
"Don't you think," she said, "that someone was sitting here a moment ago?" She turned
to the creator, pointing to the seat left by the fat man.
"No.
" "Oh, yes. I'm sure. Someone was sitting here a moment ago.
" "You imagined it. I didn't see anyone here.
" "Impossible, I did. Here a moment ago..."
He'd had enough of this. Enough of these complications. And enough of this woman.
He'd create a better one another time. And one less talkative. So he smiled again
and snapped his fingers.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Now he could rest peacefully.
The man was still asleep, and the professor seemed to be dozing too. The silence was broken only
by the panting of human breathing and the clatter of the train wheels. As if nothing had happened.
He opened his eyes and looked out the window. Perhaps this train was indeed heading
to the sea, because the mountains had long since disappeared from the landscape, replaced by vast expanses
of forest. The sun was already very low, and a slight twilight had descended upon the compartment.
So he closed his eyes again and bowed his head. He himself longed for a short nap.
But before he could fall asleep, the compartment door slid open and he heard a strange voice:
"Good morning. I'd like to have my tickets checked. "
The Creator slipped his hand into his coat pocket but didn't find his own. He checked
his other pocket, his pants. It was nowhere to be found. And then he understood. There couldn't
be a conductor here; he hadn't created any conductor.
"Oh! We have a stowaway."
The Creator opened his eyes and saw before him the slyly smiling face
of a man in a blue uniform.
"Excuse me," the professor shouted after the departing conductor. "Excuse me,
sir, don't you think someone was sitting here a moment ago?"
"No. I didn't see anyone here," the conductor replied, smiling again.
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