This is a short, not sweet post to clear my mind of an insistent-becoming-incessant theme:
The crime that is named Covid seemingly works constantly to wear us down. If it can’t directly infect us with its poisonous virus, then it attacks us indirectly with a miasmic mood mud.
A mud that slithers and slides, slinks then slathers our minds and oozes throughout our brains, leaving us soggy, unfocused, and doubtful about any future in which we don’t have to beware of its recurrence.
This metaphoric mind mud is simply another means of controlling us and keeping us prisoners in our homes.
Now I feel better. Not great, but no longer trapped in a thought loop with Covid controlling and continuing the through-thoughts.
I’m posting this on my Medium profile page today in spite of its lack of following the rules for essays or other articles. In fact, I’m posting it Because it is unorganized and unformed by rules of formality.
I’m posting it because I think I am only one of many who are caught in a Covid Trap.
If you find that you can’t predict what your mood, your productivity, your hopes for the future will be each day when you get out of bed, then I’m just saying maybe you’re stuck in this pattern too.
At some point, we must realize we have to be our own cavalry that comes to the rescue. At least we can ride to our rescue together. And in the meantime, we can admit to feeling like hell some days.
Thanks for reading this, if you’re still with me.
I don’t complain all the time, so if you want to read some of my other poems and stories, follow me here to find them.