In the pandemic there is pandemonium. Except there isn’t. Mostly there is boredom. Some of us keep working through erratic remote access. Others are left abruptly unemployed. Many of us share awkward conference calls and unflattering video ones. Some scramble through days gone harried, trying to function while keeping six feet apart. We all sit, isolated, scrolling through social media, watching Netflix, and drinking too much wine.
At least that is the story we tell each other.
The truth is more complex. Our boredom is freighted with fear. We wash our hands, prepare meals, eat, and wash our hands again. We don't sleep well. The familiar scenery outside the door simmers with threat. Our plans have evaporated and the future stretches blank and unknown, its edges a hazy horizon. We are locked down with our nearest and dearest, some of whom turn out to be too near and less dear than we’d hoped.
What is left? The confines of our mind are not always a pretty places.
Scribbles are thoughts, musings, stories, and poems. Scribbles are inconsistently added, quick, short, and (hopefully!) fun.