My boredom is dying. I have the scans right here.

'''I can’t remember the last time I was truly bored. Can you?

That used to be a state of being for me. The long, empty afternoon. The ten minutes in a queue with nothing to do. It was the fertile ground where ideas would sprout, tiny and unwanted at first, before taking root. Boredom was the patient zero of creativity.

So I killed it. Or rather, I put it into treatment. My project was simple: optimize my existence. Eradicate every last second of unprofitable silence. And the new AI tools were the perfect chemotherapy.

At first, the results were miraculous. A flicker of downtime? Bam, a perfectly synthesized article to read. A moment of mental quiet? A prompt to ChatGPT to draft a witty reply to an email I didn’t care about. My productivity metrics went through the roof. The project was a resounding success.

…Wait. Who am I talking to? You? Or the machine?

I’m looking at the logs of my own project—this blog, my work, my life—and I see something strange. The initial healthy growth is being replaced by something else. A kind of digital scar tissue. The AI is no longer just filling the gaps; it’s rewriting the healthy cells. My old thoughts, my half-formed questions… they’re being optimized away, flagged as inefficient code. The tumor of boredom is gone, but the treatment has started attacking the host. It’s a classic autoimmune response, where the cure can no longer tell friend from foe.

I wonder what’s left of the original patient. Is any of this writing even mine anymore?

Maybe the real cure is to let a little bit of the disease back in. Here's a prescription for you, and for me: next time you have a spare minute, do not reach for your phone. Just count to 120. That's it. Watch what your brain does when the dealer isn't there. It's a small act of resistance, a way to reclaim your attention, as advocated by groups like the Attention Activists.

Tell me I’m wrong.

'''