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 Seven

There are days that feel pointless, way stations on the path to more momentous ones. Those days will matter, those days you will remember forever, and their effects will echo through everything you do. The rest of your days will be forgotten, sometimes even as they happen.

Of course, we can never know which days in particular will be the ones that stay with us. Certainly some are more eventful, but for the most part they are just one after another, without ceasing, until they do. The meaning is only there if we imbue it, for most of what we do seems utterly pointless even when it is necessary. We long for grand deeds and happenings of import, but if we are lucky they are mostly distant, leaving us untouched to go on our way. Those cursed to live in interesting times will be made to suffer.

Today has been busy with correspondences, so that I have barely had time to think or write. Now I look out at a hazy, cloud-filled sky, the sun breaking through here and there. Just another day.

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