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 Sixty

The last few days have had a peculiar sort of monotony to them. Nothing stands out in my mind, not the things I’ve done, the television I’ve watched or the songs I’ve listened to. Even the book I am reading seems to be repeating the same incidents. I can’t recall the faces of anyone I passed by on my wanderings. Nothing drew my attention in any sort of way.

I would say I am trapped in some sort of loop except there is no sense of repetition. No déjà vu. I don’t recognize anything from day to day in the monotony. It is all new in its strange flatness.

Perhaps it is just that I am not receptive to what I encounter. I am looking without seeing, hearing without listening. Nothing registers, it just passes by and I disappear into myself.

Even my own thoughts seem tedious. I try to push beyond the usual paths my mind takes, but they seem to find the rut in the road and proceed of their own accord until I just stop paying attention.

This afternoon I think I shall take the time to sit outside and try to not let any thoughts intrude. I shall watch the birds in the trees, the clouds in the sky, and listen as the world passes by.

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