It’s been long COVID for too long. I’m done with the fogginess, forgetfulness, fatigue, fuckin over it—or wish I were. Got no creative juice or energy to work a thought, an idea, much less find the motivation to work on shit already cooking and simmering. When I do find the drive to write, it’s scattered and, like this blog, a bit lazy.
And it sucks when almost my entire weekend is spent asleep, the Rona creeping back to spread its foul fingers and grip me. “Boss, I got the grip.”
Really, all I want to do is make Spotify lists and read about two-headed sharks. It requires a backhoe to get me into the shower, to do almost anything.
Tried meditation but it seems like “yum” and “yuck” are the only mantras that work for me. Dunno why I’m stuck on “yuck” like a skipping record but my suspicion is that it’s the same motherfucking thing that’s been going on since my 61st birthday. Another dose of the shit thirteen months later. But even after my first hit, I was feeling all the symptoms of long COVID and when it smacked me down a second time it didn’t go on for two weeks but just seemed to magnify the depression, the sense that I was dying.
Yeah, we all die but with long COVID, life becomes anhedonic, a dreadful trudge to a grave filled with regrets, unatoned for sins, the suffocation of nothingness and cold dirt. As if everything that’s happened prior to being infected is meaningless existential horror, sucked into a black hole and reduced to particles added to infinite mass.
Pretty much like life, amiright?