The persistence of memory

It took 8 weeks before I finally felt a sense structure in my deconstructed life. 

Did it take everyone else two months to find an element of calm in this new isolated existence? I can’t be the only one who has flailed like a fish out of water, flopping from place to place, can I? 

There was some time last week when I truly felt like I had a grasp on the situation. I was as near as I’ve ever before been to embracing this new isolated existence. It almost felt comfortable. My days had a structure and flow that felt comforting, like I was wrapped in a cocoon of consistency. I was productive.

I recognized my newfound rhythm wasn’t so much the development of my own personal pacing as it was a relinquishing of the schedule I’ve functioned under for my many, many years of living by the academic calendar. I had finally let go and relaxed into the situation. It was kind of like leaning in to a turn when riding my bicycle. Instinctual.

That sense of being in control was short lived. While my natural impulse is to be positive and spin situations into learning opportunities, what we’re experiencing now, individually and collectively, is not something that should be normalized. This pandemic is disruptive to every single segment of the world’s population and will change the way we all live long after the virus is controlled.

I’m at a stage in this crisis where I am, in fact, tired of it. Or maybe overwhelmed is a better word. I’ve read countless stories about Covid-19 and the havoc it wreaks and have reached a point where I can not absorb anymore information about the virus. Not another word.  I’m saturated.

I’m serious. The more I read about the pandemic, the more unreal it feels. I don’t mean in a conspiracy theory way. No, I mean in YA Dystopian Fiction book sort of way. Like, how did this happen? Is this real?

It’s the definition of surreal, Dali come to life.  I can’t help but wonder, years from now, what will persist in our own memories from this time? What would you prefer to forget?