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 Forty

I have tried accomplishing things today, but most of those attempts have been in vain. There are days when it doesn’t matter what you do or how hard you try, you just get nothing done and this is one of them. I have tried on and off throughout the day to find the words to write, and have started and stopped half a dozen times at least, writing a sentence and then striking it from the page.

I don’t particularly believe in inspiration. Waiting for it is certainly a fool’s game. Most days, when faced with a blank page and an indifference to do anything I can set myself to the task. The words will come, whether good, bad or indifferent – I can never tell anyway. Normally there is a pleasure in doing so, in the act of making something from nothing and filling the white page with blank ink. It eases my mind, sends all worries and cares away, and takes me to another place.

But today is not one of those days. My mind refuses to wander off on its own peculiar paths. It stays on the page and refuses to budge, the cursor flickering like a light bulb about to go out. The dog days of summer perhaps. The heat of the last days has drained me and my body and mind refuse to answer and settle down to my tasks.

What more is there to say anyway about the grippe reborn that has not been said. He remains and so do we. And so, tomorrow is another day.

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