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 Twenty Five

Time is moving slowly today. I feel adrift from its current, caught in some eddy, pulling me back. Time is all about perception, of course, as we all have become only too aware. We are not used to days without a firm schedule, of being forced to live entirely in the present moment with no thought given to the future. For the future is no longer there.

I have rarely been one of those people who worries about not doing enough with their time. Growing up on a farm in the Quarter, there was no sense of the rigidity of a schedule, of clocking in and clocking out, making the most of the hours of the day. There the days followed the rhythm of the seasons and the weather.

There is nothing I cherished more than a day with nothing to do, no one to see, no obligations or duties. I could set my mind to whatever I pleased or just sit about and let my mind wander where it would. With the arrival of the dread lord these days have now become more plentiful. Weekends that might once have been busy with activities are now empty, but it has become harder to just let go and relax. To imagine.

I now realize all that was a luxury, bequeathed to me by circumstance. In those days I could dream of the future, could assume that I would have one. How many are denied that chance, forced to live for the present and fight for every scrap they can get? We will be alright once the dread lord is thwarted, however long that takes, but so many in so many other places will not.

My love has tested negative for the presence of the grippe reborn. An expected result, but still a happy phone call to receive.

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