I was angry a lot of the time. Bitter, hiding under a bunker of my own entitlement and privilege. I had always worked the lack to my own disadvantage. I should have been laughing a lot more.
It was interesting to still call yourself alive. Or it was important to remember there was such a thing as time. The more I complained the more I realized I had a lot to be grateful for.
What about the pandemic as an art form? The pandemic as a splatter paint of purpose and need, social inequity and transparent class divides.
Verge of collapse, verge of panic attack. Reckless self-destruction. Was it obvious to everybody else? I’ve fallen far away from myself. I’ve fallen for a lie.
I wanted to cry, to feel my face wet and shallow and weak. I wanted the muscles and reflexes to give in. I wanted the micro-expressions to all be enveloped by something drowning.
I had a headache, felt like someone was digging potholes through my skull. Plotting our way to a future corpse, only here to fall apart twice a day.
I wanted to keep a small past. I didn’t want to be Jillison anymore.
I felt like throwing up. I needed to lie down. I felt like it was all a wound to come.
Just another mediocrity, another state of emergency: helplessness, emptiness, love in the time of poverty, etc.
Moral conversion is a relatively rare event in a person’s normal development. Most of the time, you just keep bleeding.