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 Eighty One

The days come and go and the news is all the same. It feels like we are on the precipice of something momentous and that soon, inevitably we must tip over and begin the plunge below. Yet we remain where we are, forever waiting and uncertain. When the moment actually arrives, should it ever, will we even notice?

By the time we do, it will be too late. That is the fear anyway. We are narrow sighted creatures, only able to notice what is right in front of us. It is only after we have passed a hundred trees and lost our way that we realize we are in a tangled forest that does not want us to escape.

I will not pretend to have any answers for any of this. None of us knows anything. We are all just guessing, hoping that the dread lord and all those other demons we face everyday have not already planned for this eventuality. How can they? We are bizarre and various, capable of anything. Even we cannot predict ourselves, how can we expect others to. The inherent strangeness of all of us is what gives me hope. No one can claim to understand us. We can only ask the questions and hope for some semblance of an answer.

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