The hysteria has gone. I've been dreading this.
At least I still have the intermittent horror to cling to.
I know what you're thinking: "Terry wouldn't want you to live in a constant state of ruin."
No, he wouldn't, but the idea holds a certain attraction for me.
Even the fact that grief has stages, according to the experts, and that I might be moving through them towards some new version of normality offends me.
It would suit me fine to stay in the maelstrom stage. I have always been at my best in a raging, bruising crisis. The darker and more hopeless it gets the more steadfast I become. If those conditions remained I could cope. Particularly if it kept that sly, soft-soaping swindler 'acceptance' away from my door.
World events have conspired to help me with this plan of not moving on. There's another expression I can't stand - moving on. Please don't ever say that to me.
What has Covid given us but months of stasis, with no scope to make plans, few opportunities to mix with other people and no point in thinking about your next life goal?
I'm kidding myself somewhat here, I have never set a life goal, but you know what I mean.
Few of us have been making new memories and this has suited me, since I am scared new memories might crowd out the old ones I like better.
Here's to treading water.