I am sitting on the couch and I can‘t move. My feet are wet and dry socks are just two steps away from me. But I don‘t want to move, because once I‘ve moved, I would also have to bring the laundry into the basement and put it up to dry, and also get the pizza into the oven and that is just too much for today.
„How is everything so dystopian again?“, I whisper into the empty and dark living room.
Living room? Yes, since the first lockdown, a lot of things changed. By now, I have a real kitchen and a living room, and can offer my witch a lot more 21-century-comfort, for as long as she can stay, only because I‘ve decided to live with a good friend. Although we live together, I won‘t see him for lockdown number two, because he will stay with his girlfriend. I completely understand that, of course. In times of crisis we go to our loved ones, and are stuck with them for so long until no feelings are left. Priorities are fun.
„Has it ever been better, or are you just tired of things being like this?“, Layla asked, as she made us some tea.
Yes, I was tired of things being like this. Of not being able to relax, and of having all the wrong ideas in my head. Ideas like having coffee with someone, or meeting someone at a restaurant. Or feeling save within a crowd. I had to learn that, that people can be nice, and that there was no reason to always be afraid. And now there were all these reasons to be afraid. That‘s not nice, universe.
„But things are not the same as they were eight months ago“, I answered Layla‘s question. „We try to keep things functional, by now.“
Keeping things functional. I remember that in May I wrote thoughts on this in my first diary that brought me through the first phase of the pandemic. I was hoping for us to keep things functional and to develope ways of dealing with the new situation. And you know what? We have, and it really sucks. Reality really sucks, the new normal really sucks. But as headlines I read every morning point out: We don‘t have a choice.
No, we really don‘t. So we just move as much as we can while doing the only the smallest damage possible. Meaning that while I was at my new job and sitting distantly and mask-wearing planning a n official trip to the other end of the country, thousands of new cases a day flash over my phone screen and I feel like these two things just can‘t belong into the same world.
It also means that later in the evening, when being at my second job and teaching little children, now and then someone opens up the door and reminds to keep the distance, while I just so stopped and irritated eight year old girl from climbing onto my lap.
„Nothing makes sense anymore“, I say while my cold feet really become unnerving, and might be my next reason to cry. „I am doing things mechanically, and I don‘t feel them anymore. I don‘t have a voice anymore. I can‘t just plan and organize something to be rolled over by a pile of corpses a night before. I can‘t kick one of my little students away from me because it really is the right thing to do. I don‘t know how to live anymore. I really don‘t.“
In moments like this, I reach out for my phone, and I share all my blog posts directly dealing with death once more. Sometimes I even whisper that it is so unfair that the virus most likely won‘t kill me, and that this little bastard is such a failure. So I boost my views on vanilla and death, on at least let me dead inside, on a leaking soul, on drowning … And even when I cannot move at all, my fingers move over the screen to do this, and while doing so, my thought move on to think of so much more to write, and while all my brain screams error all day, I can be sure, that I will not stop completely as long as I have so many tales to tell.
I wish I’d told you all my stories.
I want to tell you all my storiesIt’s not that they would changeIt’s just that I would likeTo see themFormA new expressionOn your face I need to tell you all my storiesI am not sureIf they makeSenseThe way I thoughtThey do. I will tell you all my storiesThey frighten meI’m sure you won’t endureI see…
Dealing with darkness in writing
This spring afternoon is glowing pink and tastes like strong tea. It feels much too familiar, and I begin to open up.I feel far away from myself as I start to talk, to babble on about my novel. About all the things I’ve been reading about in the past 5 years. About the 17th century,…
Radical witching novel rewrites at 4 AM!
I wore the same night dress my witch used to wear to get drunk on my windowsill, when I suddenly had an idea at 4 AM. Great ideas always happen at 4 AM, remember? This one however, kept me awake for at least a week, debating it back and forth. At some point my witch…
Mistress witch writes 