What seems like only a short time ago, there was a period of time that I didn’t leave the house of a weekend. I spent most of the day in bed, alternating between staring at my phone and sleeping. I slept long into the afternoons, rising to shower, and retiring again to my lounge to stare again at the TV. The drone of a straight to Netflix movie or some show I’d binged watched five times already. I would drink, alone, and rise from the lounge to stumble into the shower where I would cry. Sob tears into my white subway tiles before crawling into my empty bed. The sound of my Great Dane snoring softly lulling me into a drunken slumber, never pleasant, always restless.
Self isolation, social distancing, being a full-time introvert or whatever the fuck we’re in now, I feel the darkness calling. God that’s so wanky. I feel the sadness calling? The hole? I feel sad OK, like so many people now. There is deep anxiety thrumming through our social and professional networks, a hum of uncertainty that has everyone on edge. It’s grief, despair and fear of a future foretold in some random sci-fi book but apparently governments the world over were too stupid, nay arrogant to see it. But this feeling, the insomnia, the surge of adrenaline, the tick tock waiting of some invisible clock, it’s not just me and others like me now. It’s all of us. We’ve become archaeologists of news, scouring articles, news clips, interviews, trying desperately to make sense of something unfathomable unless you add zombies. Where are the fucking zombies?
If I’m to be alone, self-isolated with my farting dog for company, I want to know it meant something, that I meant something. That being a whore, a wife, a girlfriend, a mistress, was all for something.