There’s a kind of bone-tiredness you get from being responsible for a constant stream of micro and macro decisions; from constantly context-switching between the personal and the professional and back again; from maneuvering the emotional reality of The Pandemic and the economic reality of The Pandemic and the political reality of The Pandemic and the mundane daily dread of The Pandemic.
And then there is the news (and your role in the news) and then there’s all the isms and all the schisms which are no less exhausting now that everyone thinks it’s time for everyone else to do the things they didn’t want to do, didn’t know they had to do, didn’t realize were things that needed doing. Because sometimes words are only sounds made by people we don’t care to understand.
What do you do, how do you keep going, how do you keep making the sounds?
Open the curtains, fold the sheets, water the plants, tidy the desk, make the coffee, choose that day’s armour/lipstick/outfit/shield, steady the breathing, make the sounds that shape the words, shape the words that tell the story, drink the coffee, drink the coffee, drink the coffee. Go.