The fear is back.
You can see it on people’s faces. You can hear it in their voices. Gaps between shoppers are widening, masks remain firmly in place even after leaving buses, shops, and tube stations. Schedules lack the air of certainty they once had and plans are written in pencil.
We have passed that precious moment of peace. The calm before the storm. It is too late for that. The wind is noticeably stronger now and the first few drops of rain puncture our hope as we sit idly in our homes. Our homes that have become our worlds. Our world which is closing in around us.
As we wait, our feelings of hopelessness are matched only by the feelings of certainty.
It is coming.
My mind plays a sick guessing game with itself, prompting images of a macabre sport where bets are taken on casualty figures. A casino of death. “Who had 75,000? Congratulations, you win.” And your prize is the knowledge that you have survived and the world you once knew is over.
And what of the lost 8-months? What of the lost year that we are inevitably sliding towards? What if 2021 does not bring the end?
The questions mount like the bodies at the morgues. Our leaders flail helplessly from one crisis to the next. Do not turn to them for reassurance, do not turn to them for truth, for there is none to be found.
We are alone.
Waiting.
From bed, to desk, to kitchen, to bed. An endless cycle repeats itself and we are trapped in its regimented insanity, attempting to be normal in times that are anything but. And it is time that is now our only companion. The day’s clock ticks on as the life clock ticks down. Hour by hour we watch our lives erode with futile attempts of distraction and self-comfort.
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