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 Fifty Two
A sluggish return to correspondences after a week of wandering the countryside. It is always hard to return to work after time away and it has only become more so in this year of the dread lord. A fog covers my thoughts and refuses to lift. I am distracted, irritable, wanting something, but unsure what it might be.
My love and I returned home from our journey, exhausted by all we had done, and spent the last few days at nothing, dreading returning to work. All ambition had leached from us. The grand plans we had talked about for our return home were forgotten and we spent our days at home, aimless and restless, yet unwilling to do much of anything.
I tell myself it is just that we needed time to recover from our trip. Journeys are always exhausting, no matter how enjoyable they may be, and that is especially so under the shadow of the grippe reborn, where even the simplest and most pleasurable of activities are haunted by unease. Or perhaps it was that we were unconsciously gathering strength for our return to our daily drudgeries.
In truth these are all just symptoms of our exhaustion with this neverending present, with the grippe reborn and all the attendant concerns that never quite leave our minds, even when they seem absent from our thoughts. And we are the lucky ones in truth, we can’t forget that, both employed, both healthy. For the moment at least. What the next moment brings we shall see.
We are tired of this. Tired of having to think about it constantly, to always be aware. Tired of not being able to think more than a week or two into the future. Tired of the worry about what is to come and what isn’t. Just tired, and wishing somehow that there could be some sort of end to this all.