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One hundred days. One hundred days since a microbe entered our consciousness and the world we have made and turned them upside down. One hundred days of fear and misinformation and division stoked by conspiracy theorists and a mad, senile President yet possessed of a low and cruel cunning. One hundred days of panic buying and mandates and the stubborn resistance of some people to this new reality of isolation and lonely, strictured existence inside houses barricaded against the outside world. One hundred days since I have set wheel inside a movie theater or store or had a staycation at a cheap hotel. One hundred days since we have ceased to dream.
I feels sane, but then I suppose most mad people do. If it weren't for the Internet, I have no doubt I would be peeling the shitty, cheap paint just to savor the metallic, zesty tang of the chips. I thought I would do more reading and writing with all this time on my hands, but I've done pitifully little of either. Twenty-ought thousands words of a fic over three months, and I'm three books behind on my annual reading challenge on Goodreads, never mind that I just picked up a new library book today. I still haven't finished my old one. My concentration and interest levels are sad, tattered ruins these days.
Maybe tomorrow, I say. Maybe tomorrow.
I feels sane, but then I suppose most mad people do. If it weren't for the Internet, I have no doubt I would be peeling the shitty, cheap paint just to savor the metallic, zesty tang of the chips. I thought I would do more reading and writing with all this time on my hands, but I've done pitifully little of either. Twenty-ought thousands words of a fic over three months, and I'm three books behind on my annual reading challenge on Goodreads, never mind that I just picked up a new library book today. I still haven't finished my old one. My concentration and interest levels are sad, tattered ruins these days.
Maybe tomorrow, I say. Maybe tomorrow.
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