By Allison Rowe
We exist in a world that glorifies movement. Each beat of advancement, the rhythm of success, urges us onward to constantly pursue the next challenge, the next destination. Each triumph, however great, glows for only a moment before it's consumed by the need for more. The gratification is short lived, but the unshakeable hunger remains.
As a teenager thrust into the competitive world of college applications, I've experienced this myself: a series of check boxes marked through, successes piled up, each one producing a brief high — a sharp spark, like a tasty flavor, but one which vanishes before I can savor it. The cycle repeats. I stack my calendar until it looks like a losing Tetris game, and I seek the next rush of adrenaline, thinking this last completed task will be the one that brings peace. But with each success, I find myself emptier than the last.
It's a strange hunger, this one. The kind that, no matter how much you indulge it, always leaves you reaching for more. We are addicted to accomplishment, constantly feeding the beast of productivity, but no sacrifice could ever satisfy the craving that gnaws beneath the surface. The more we strive, the more discontented we become. There is always one more thing to pursue, one more false promise of satisfaction.
But: What if we stopped running? What if the space we most fear, the void and the quiet, is where creativity actually flourishes?
Boredom, in a world so addicted to movement, is the enemy. An intolerable pain for the activated mind. A luxury we can't afford. A threat to our productivity. But what if it's not? What if boredom isn't a locked room but a heavy door, one that leads us off the beaten path? The achievement loop can be endless. Every success drives the hunger more, and we end up wondering what it was all about. All the goals, all the awards — what do they ultimately add up to? Are we running toward completion, or just running because that's the only pace we know?
Boredom is not a lack of value. It is the rich soil in which new ideas can take root. It is the silence between overtures where listeners truly feel and process what they heard. When we no longer run, when we no longer keep ourselves busy each instant with tasks and noise, our minds have space to breathe, to roam. And in that stillness, ideas that could change everything begin to emerge.
