My computer isn’t working properly. Everytime I use it, I become embedded, a physical symptom of a deeper malaise, a tension that wraps itself around me. On trying to discuss the future, conjecture is reduced, quickly dispelled by a simple word: ‘weird’. Less is known. Long before the virus we had stumbled into a labyrinth, a shiny series of surfaces that promised the best of ourselves whilst insidiously delivering the worst. Now, that maze has been poorly shuffled, I exist in a flattened land, A space where the fourth dimension of time is diminished, reduced to a clearly observed, easily recounted continuum of ‘the same’.
Yesterday is today, is tomorrow, but not in a profound, sitting high upon a hill way. It’s the fracturing of life, a deeper fear mediated at every turn by corporate entities, a nagging and fist-clenched loss of meaning, broken: wind is on the plain, the valley is dry, the crops may fail and many die. It’s that kind of thing, but, too big and too fearsome to contemplate, I return to the inadequacies of my early actions. Onwards, head down.