Notes on the Grippe

Being an accounting of the recent and continuing pandemic and its various circumstances, from the perspective of an inhabitant of the regions lately called the Lost Quarter. Dates unknown.

Day Sixteen

Every time I allow myself to think that sense of normalcy has arrived at last, that the days can go on like this now, something happens to jar and remind me of how provisional all this. The earth is shifting at our feet. Is it an earthquake, an aftershock, or something new born into this strange new existence?

There are no earthquakes in the Lost Quarter, though we sometimes feel the tremors of other distant eruptions. It is always so strange to think that something that has happened in another realm, far away and unreachable, can touch those of us here in this secluded place. Even those of us here, who both curse and bless our isolation, are forced to admit we are a part of the greater world, for better or worse.

There are wars breaking out now, grand battles played on stages across the Quarter, where strict lines are drawn between adherents and apostates. Everyone fixates upon each piece of news that comes out on what this place did and this other did not and draws sweeping conclusions. Some insist it will all fall apart despite our best efforts, while others are blind in their faith, repeating it will be alright like a prayer offered to whatever gods remain in this devastated landscape.

None of us knows truly. The grippe is reborn, the dread lord come anew, and we still know so little of his insidious powers. We can only play for time and hope it will be enough for us to find a proper defence.

I lit a candle after it grew dark last evening and watched the dancing flame as it burned down the wick, wanting to see what would happen when it was burned to its end and there was nothing left.

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