Time just rolls forward. There’s no stopping it, and when we’re frozen in time to different extents because of the pandemic, that can create some really odd sensations.
There are certain times of year that are checkpoints for me and always have been: the start of spring, the first Christmas shopping stress, or the first fresh Okanagan peach enjoyed under the rays of the sun. Personally, I’m really looking forward to that last one, but the last little while has been anything but days of firsts. The most recent checkpoint has not been anything tangibly external to look forward to, (because, lets be honest, those types of things are about as scarce as a mint Mountain Dew in the desert) but, and bear with me on this, an odd sense of serenity.
My apartment is laid out like the typical college student (and by that I mean it’s messy). I often work in the same room that I sleep and relax in. Considering that our sense of place contributes to our sense of identity, it makes sense that everyone’s sense of time, cohesion, identity, and general togetherness has been put into a tough spot, as everything else in the world has (and that’s my two cents about sense).
But the last couple of weeks have been different for me. Is this, I found myself thinking, acceptance?
That was the spark at the base of the flame that set one of my favourite past-times—rabbit-holing into a trench of inquisitive doubt—ablaze.
If it has taken a year to get used to this new normal—and I mean fully used to it, not COVID-used to it in that sad sort of way, but used to it to the extent that I’m finally just as content as I was before COVID-19—how long is it going to take to adjust back to life post-COVID? Or has it finally been so long that I simply don’t know, or have chosen to forget what I’m missing?
Yeah, okay. Fine. I’m a little afraid it might be the latter, too.
For right now, I’m on a pink cloud, breathing scarlet air, wearing crimson glasses, and soaring through the universe at 200 miles an hour with a punch-drunk smile on my face. Just make sure you’ve run for the hills when I hit the ground. I’ve never done too well with deadstick landings.
Adam Marsh
adam@nexusnewspaper.com