Every Tomorrow is the Same.
I have been quarantining for eight days. Before I wrote the previous sentence, I had to check my calendar to be certain about the day. Today was particularly difficult.
The walls of my studio apartment seemed to close in and subtract square footage from my small, not tiny, unit. The day began in a similar manner as it has for the past week. I went for a long walk. Due to the brain injury, which I suffered in 2005, after about an hour of walking, my left leg becomes fatigued, and my balance suffers. If I could, I’d trek to each end of the city in an attempt to pass the days of quarantine. But, at the end of my daily jaunt, as I headed up Spruce Street while listening to tunes, the reality of what lay ahead for the remainder of my day annoyed me much more than the choppiness of my gait.
This day was interspersed with reading for pleasure and work, checking Twitter for news about the pandemic, and completing a disappointing home workout. The daily pressers in which the Clown in Chief focuses more time and attention on the health of the nation’s economy than the health of the nation’s citizens multiplies my anxious feelings. During the good ol’ days of non-quarantine, I would go to the gym to sweat out my frustrations or trepidations. Today, I felt as if I was in solitary confinement and unable to discover the peace of mind for which I desperately seek.
It is forecast to rain tomorrow. I am hopeful the precipitation will wash away this malaise, and I will again look forward to the days ahead.
