When I was a child, my grandmother taught me the world was a kind place. And I believed her, because children believe.
As I grew older, I discovered that this wasn’t always so. Still, I carried on living as if it were true.
What was the point, I asked myself, in pursuing an experience of serial disappointments day after day?
I’ve seen atrocities large and small: from petty quotidian cruelties to intentional, inexplicable harm.
And I shook my head as if to press the reset button. I called them exceptions. I told myself that they could only hurt me if I let them.
This morning I have woken up to find my soul is exhausted with the effort of constantly substituting fantasy for reality.
This is the day I cannot see past the immediate or find the energy to put a good spin on things.
Today is lockdown day.
