3:30 PM. I am working on my Research Internship, and I have just noticed that the room is quite dim. The sky is cloudy, and it looks like it is about to rain. There is very little light coming through the windows. The light switch is about two steps to the left of my table. I get up from my chair, walk two steps, and turn on the light.
4:30 PM. Still working on my Research Internship. The room now appears to be excessively lit. The skies are blue and cloudless. The rain has stopped. I get up from my chair, walk two steps, and turn off the light.
5:15 PM. I am sipping hot tea while reading a literary expose’ on Emily Dickinson. It is a satirical article. The light in the room has dimmed once again. The skies are cloudy, again. I can hear thunder. I finish my tea, get up from my chair, walk two steps, and turn on the light. I wash my hands in the bathroom, pee (and wash my hands after), and leave the room to wash the teacup.
“The pandemic has transformed the Hedonic treadmill into a bicycle on an uphill slope that burns your calves to a crisp.” — average angst enjoyer.
When the first wave of COVID-19 hit, it sent my mom and her friends into a frenzy. My brother and I were banned from leaving the house, and we were made to regularly wash and sanitize everything we touched. This was back when my city reported around 50 cases a day. COVID was media fodder. COVID was coming. COVID would get you, if you didn’t mask up and vote for the incumbent party, emphasis on incumbency. COVID was a WhatsApp status. COVID was a gleefully depressing WhatsApp forward. COVID was out to get you.
COVID couldn’t get us.
When the second wave hit, the city exploded with the virus. Our healthcare was stretched thin, and our government practically gave up. The city began to report over a 1000 cases a day. Oxygen supplies were depleted, and the black market was booming. Cow dung and Remdesivir supplies carried the economy. My brother and I were allowed to leave the house as long as we wore our masks at all times. My mom and her friends seemed a lot more confident this time, a lot more prepared. The WhatsApp forwards weren’t as dire either. The situation was, though.
COVID couldn’t get us this time too.
The third wave has slowly begun, and it seems to be much milder than the previous two waves by the looks of it. The New Yorker ran an excellent piece that explained why the third wave may not be as widespread as the previous two waves, if we exercise caution. I say excellent because it told me exactly what I wanted to hear, and I have conveniently forgotten the rest of the article. Why can’t the media be propaganda machines that tell me what I want to hear? Life in the city has begun to go back to normal. Pre-pandemic expectations have returned. Bicycles have become treadmills again.
We got the ‘Rona.
A friend recently told me that life works in unexpected ways. My dad recently told me that we are all destined to be something. I believe them. If I am unexpectedly an unemployed engineer ten years from now, know that it is my destiny. Look at me, unnecessarily sassing two genuine pieces of advice for clout. Is this how stand-up comedians feel?
If this blog survives even half as long as the Rick Roll, I’ll get to cringe at my attempts at adulting. I cringe at the thought of being an adult. The irony. That song’s sole purpose at this point is to undermine Ozymandias. Art that can stand the test of relentless catcalling will survive the test of time. In your face, Mr. Shelley. (RIP too btw).
I think all this poor humor, in taste and quality, is only jinxing my chances of
getting a kickass future that is destined in an unexpected manner. Jinxes are real.
In all seriousness, if I do, in fact, continue to run the rat race, and it seems like I will, my destiny seems to be a track that has been run so many times that we have people opening refreshment stalls on the side. Touchwood.
With regards to the island I was on the last time I wrote this, I have begun swimming back to civilization. Touchwood.
Fin.
The playlist for this week is based on the time at which this was written. Get in ya feels (and ignore the titles).
