This last weekend had succeeded in whirling my emotional dervish, but not in the same manner that characterized my state for the past year and a half. I had been working, yes, and at close to feverish pace, though hampered by physical fatigue and one-two punches to the brain and heart.
It had been stirring, this heart, though not in ways many might think. I’m convinced that it’s just “a silly stage I’m going through.” Still, something horrifying is happening: Personal Life is building up steam, ready to traipse the wild blooming polychromatic gardens and burst into ebullient song, complete with contortionist choreography, and bid goodbye to the shelter and security of social quarantine.
Personal Life was sauntering towards the exit of his containment facility when I bludgeoned its cranium repeatedly with my mallet. Now it’s semi-conscious, saliva trickling from its quivering lips, yet still managing to murmur the lyrics of some insipid love hymn. We’re not done yet, I said. Don’t be a Fool. Don’t jump.
We’re not ready to die.