requisite quarantine feelings post

it's rainy twilight. I am vibing with the weather. and every time I write "vibing" I get autocorrected to "viking".

this is hard for me. everything is hard for me right now. I am not loving getting up in the morning. I put off going to bed because then I don't have to face the next day. nothing is in itself hard; it's just all so much the same, so many same little everyday stresses. it's like having teeny anxiety sand grains in my head, and the grit is getting to me.

usually—or used to be—reading helped this. but right now, I can't summon the emotional investment for fiction and have no mental capacity for anything else. also, all my current books are digital, and my inability to focus these days is exponentially increased by blue light, seems like. work is all screen, too. so I stare out the window constantly and miss large, integral chunks of conversation in meetings.

I am tired of zoom calls. I am tired of talking about the quarantine. I am inevitably the one who brings it up on zoom calls, which makes me irrationally irritated and then I wonder why no one seems to have a life to talk about anymore—ironic,* because I spend my days working, sleeping, and staring out the window, for the most part.

*I almost said "funny" but then remembered "hahahaha," and it made me sad to think of how we used to do that in the carefree summer of our youth

frankly, I'm even tired of the virus memes, because the time spent laughing and then sighing is getting disproportionately weighted towards the sigh.

when I was in school I liked to read sad poetry to cheer myself up. "it's lonely in the country, I remember" was a good refreshing tear-jerker at the time but now it's another way everything I read makes me depressed. memories of hopes that are not, bla bla, and it's clear that stickney never had to wear a mask in public by order of the state government.

it's spring. I thought winter's rains and ruins were over, and all the season of snows and sins. yet I am sitting inside, viking with the glum dim sadness, the petty dust my soon-choked soul to fill. with a heigh ho the wind and the rain.

the one thing bringing me joy these days is walking to BJ harrison reading leave it to psmith, and I honestly won't know what to do when that is done. walk to another wodehouse, possibly, a dignified procession of one.

feel how swift, how secretly, the shadow of the night comes on.
still falls the rain.
miniver coughed and called it fate, and kept on drinking.