On the excess of fear and shortages of hope that become more severe in the latter part of the year, counterbalanced with mostly optimistic observations.
Which day of the illness was it? The 12th, or maybe 14th. The illness whose name we don’t want to say aloud despite it being everywhere around us. Even calling a friend becomes scary, everyone keeps talking about the same thing. Or about politics, and it’s hard to tell which is worse.
So, it might have been day 14, if not 16 – an advanced stage anyway – in which I already knew how to react to my internal tugs of desperation. I learned to treat them with gentleness. My everyday life had been drastically reduced, making me appreciate little joys: a warm bath, a walk to the living room, or – like that day – staring through the window.
I played
