A crisis. Naturally, I don’t wish the dire consequences experienced around the world on anyone. The fact one person is in pain is bad enough. But I can’t help but think that my life til this moment has been not much more than a series of crises; this one, different only in its outside existence, in the fact it is experienced by others… it’s easier for me to understand and survive, for we are constantly reassured of the dramatic steps being taken by everyone around us to at least try and return to normalcy. A feeling like that does not exist in the counterpart of this pandemic, I don’t know what it would be like to be free of symptoms. I just imagine that there is something more peaceful than this chaos. That each hour could be bearable.

A series of crises or one big long one? Is there a difference? I ask only because not one of them ever reached its end, not that I saw. Not for good. No closure and no lessons to be learnt, a continuous timeline. The more I see and come to know, the more I wish to close my eyes and never re-emerge from the blackness I find there.

Should I feel guilty to be glad for this respite? Countless parents will be in a different boat. Elderly bodies, withering away on beds at nursing homes long abandoned and yet I have a right to smile as I stretch on my balcony and read the second half of that book, in one day. The first half spun over weeks and did not touch me as much in that time as today, as I gave myself over entirely to reading for enjoyment, reading for pleasure, learning only for my own empowerment through knowledge and not in an attempt to store some tid-bits away so that I could return to that structured form it took in an exam one day. The uncertainty they all feel now is not new to me. And I hope within it they find clarity.

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