If human existence, or life itself, in all it’s myriad forms were just a little less interesting you might have stopped to achieve something.
You could have built a great empire, filled a library with philosophy, sired a thousand children or even found enlightenment, ennui’s beautiful son.
But you could not stop yourself returning to the bustling agora, taking in the sounds, chattering with the people, observing the many coloured stalls. A man came this week from some far off land, exotic fabrics lay shimmering under his parapet. You heard that his wife is a woman of magnificent talents, though she is cursed by disloyalty – as many of the men still drunk from the night before will heartily tell. Spreading gossip and seeking it with gusto. You had to know, you wanted the fullest possible picture of who and what and where, though you have no sense of “why?”
Another day passes and you have gotten no further toward any goal of any kind, besides that of hoarding other peoples thoughts, allegiances and experiences, and letting them rot in the overcrowded storerooms of your mind.