6/52

I'm slacking and it's not even been eight weeks. This is something - feels like nothing but also feels like everything. Just lately, as we step tentatively into the 'new normal', I've been reflecting on the pandemic. Where are the words, really? You can write and write and it feels like everything but also feels like it doesn't scratch the surface. This is obviously unfinished but I think that's good. It's still a start. It felt a bit like therapy.

Lockdown minds spinning like the needle on a compass, no fresh place with blue waters and skies, nor pastures green and meadows sweet. No trek, no trial to get the compass recentred, to get us back onto our feet. Lockdown minds static filled with the grey fuzz of a tele screen, the fizz of a morning hangover, the waiting for bedtime. The relief of shutting the door on the relatives we can’t stand, only to be stuck inside of our own minds. Lockdown minds scared and confused and frustrated at the ‘rule breakers’, paranoia hiked up like a constant hit on some bad skunk. Needing to hit out, needing to shake them, needing it to not have happened, needing a constant rewind back to the new year party when none of this existed yet. The awe at the strangers playing God. The holding of babies late at night, trying to turn away from their little kisses in case you killed them in return.