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 One Hundred Nineteen

There are days when I feel on the edge of everything. Raging, sorrowful, full of despair. Exhausted by every fucking last thing. The skin on my head feels tight, stretched across my skull. My hands ache from being clenched too tight.

It has been one hundred and nineteen days since this began and some days it seems like one thousand. It may be one thousand before it is all over.

And it is wearing on me. The constant vigilance required to stand against the dread lord. At a certain point, and without even meaning to, one becomes indifferent to the need. A defence mechanism almost, a need to not think of this any longer.

We need a break, a chance to reset, and we are not afforded it. For every time we do, the grippe reborn slips in through the cracks, finding his way to our most vulnerable spots.

This has not been easy. Let no one pretend that it has been. It has been relentless, unceasing. Everything we do, even our leisure, is shadowed by the dread lord. And the question echoes and echoes in our minds: how long?

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