It’s odd, isn’t it. You spend about a year being convinced you’re gonna die from COVID, that at some point, however hard you try, there’s going to be a moment where it just happens, and then half your family get infected, but you don’t, and then you willingly allow someone to inject a synthetic version into your body so that you can live a normal life, except you know full well there will never be any normal like it was ever again.
Mentally, this is a significant mindfuck. I don’t care how you dress it up. To sit here as I do now, as if the world just stopped feeling as if it is properly glued together, is reasonably fair by current standards. Watching the stream of people going in and out of the surgery this morning, exactly regimented and reassuringly average, you’d be hard-pressed to know anything had even happened in the last year. The only discerning common factor was masks. Everything else was instantly forgettable. This is not how it should be, but that’s where we are.
I am very, VERY angry, still: it’s there, sitting just beyond my field of vision. Yesterday it showed me just how destructive it could be, and although it was managed, I need to do something better with it than pretend it doesn’t exist. I sense a PHENOMENAL amount of exercise coming up, just to try and wring it out of me, to make exhaustion feed on it to keep me going. People had better not fucking forget what was lost on the way to their supposed salvation.
They really had better not forget the lives that no longer exist because of other people’s fucking greed.