Boredom

This is strange. For the first time in my life I had a very slight feeling of ending it all: the monotonic existence of my mind. It is not that I am depressed, or I have some big heart-broken crap to tell or the no-quarter excuse to make. But sometimes I just see no point in it at all. What is the meaning of existence if all that it culminates to are the few material remains to excavate for the future archaeologists? Or at the most some intellectual echoes of the mind that last for may be a few millennia? What is there in living the boredom of robotic life with the never ending rhythm of commonplace monotony manifested in the irritating regularity of breathing in, and then out? What pleasure can be found in the never ending cycles of seasons that play again and again with similar bucolic scenes of stagnation? What novelty can be expected in the daily patterns of light and darkness? What excitement can learning new things bring forth if all knowledge is decadent and irrelevant to the mechanical dullness of the universe?

In short, I am simply bored of life. And tonight as I go to bed I only wish I would forget to repeat the monotony of my breathing. Wait! The real question is who is this I that is feeling this boredom?...