It’s a Monday afternoon, my entire body hurts, and I have a stinging pain in my left forearm. I am not sure why that is?
google search: does depression cause actual physical pain
I am trying to trace back the steps I took this weekend- you can explain the present by studying history right? or avoid the present by studying history? It is one of the two. It is not like I had a wild weekend at all, quite the contrary. I stayed home, went to a museum, walked wading through snow, and came back home.
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And I was mostly alone like I wanted to be. I have started to think the reason I like being alone is not the pandemic anymore, I think it is just more comforting. As the world loses its sense of smell, I cure my disease of extroversion. I have stopped turning on my music, or watching TV in the background- the only sound I am hearing right now is the loud tap tap taping of my fingers on this keyboard. When I stop tapping, the room is silent. Maybe a very distant whir of an airplane passing over a nondescript town, but mostly silent. I could sit like this for ages, between taps and voids.
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normally I would find a crude reality show to wash over my surroundings, providing vapid company, but company nonetheless. Or I would look at my long list of films to watch and close the document undecided. Or stare at page 237 of the Robert Bolano book I am reading for over 15 minutes while each word turns from english to dust. normally I would do all this to push away the silence, not leave an iota of space for silence. The mind does dangerous things when silent, but not today. I am here, on a snowy day, silently feeling my body hurt and my left forearm sting- with misplaced serenity. like checking into the only cozy motel in a burning city.
google search: symptoms of severe existential crisis
postcolonialmigrant 