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?
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