Once, we sat with nothing—
just the ceiling and our thoughts,
watching shadows stretch across the wall
like they had somewhere to be.

We let time drip slow,
a faucet not quite closed,
minutes pooling into hours
with nowhere urgent to go.

We lay in fields naming clouds,
not because it meant something,
but because it didn’t.
Because a dragon turning into a ship
was reason enough to stay.

We doodled in margins,
chased dust in the light,
asked questions with no answers
and didn’t demand replies.

Now, boredom is a blank we rush to fill—
scroll, swipe, skip,
as if stillness were a sickness
and silence a sin.

But boredom was a doorway once,
a threshold to wonder,
where daydreams sprouted wild
in the cracks of empty time.

Let us miss it, just a little—
the sacred pause,
the open space
where imagination learned to breathe.