it's not the right climate for complaining
it just isn't.
it's a bloody shit show in the usa. we won't even begin to ponder the suffering within the world at large. we haven't got the stomach for it.
please note i am the 'we'. my stomach AND heart simply cannot comprehend the catastrophic brevity of it all; not today thank you, sir. carry on.
so, complaining about being stuck in bed with your forth bout of covid (yes, forth, hahahaha FUCK) feels a little 'off' - as there are bigger and more depressingly slippery fish to fry in this weeks episode of planet earth.
but i will say this - never one to take things for grated (gratitude journals are a sort of go to to make fun of, but also genuinely very useful at cultivating, well, gratitude) i am in fact guilty of taking my inner vitality and skippidy do da energy for granted all these years. it was one of the things left amiss on the ol' grat list and something i never considered would waver on me, or altogether pack up and leave in the middle of the night unexpected and ghostly like my ex lover circa 2011 .
last to leave a dance floor, first to run after your misbehaved child at the park for hours roaring like a wild beast until they laugh so hard they have a wee accident. that was me and my inner rhythm. my wondrous, delicious, reverberating, most likely golden in auragraphic color, natural, abundant soul energy.
when I had covid 1.0, i was more or less in bed for three months straight and unofficially diagnosed with the dreaded long covid (not sure an urgentcare diagnosis is legit - americans please advise).
that time spent in bed had me wistfully pining for simpler times of days long past, walking to the kitchen and fetching a glass of water without it equating to a 450km incline himalayan hike. i used to vividly dream of dancing as i was now unable to move my body. my god, i missed dancing so much. and now, on magical covid round 4.0, i'm back in that sad state.
my body is a mound of glue. i'd give my big toe to have the energy to muster a singular slut drop.
seven days in and it's just me, my bed, my disruptive thoughts, and the hetro hellscape that is love island season 8.
my point, regrettable subscriber, is this: if you are able to get about your day, depressed OBVIOUSLY given the state of things, but with even a mild pep in your little step, i beg of you, pep it up. pep it real good. have a little bedroom boogie if you bloody can, peppy jones. just get peppy. and be grateful that you can.
... or don't.
i'm not telling you how to live your life. and i'm certainly not complaining. not in this climate.
With much bodily envy and a non stifling amount of love,
Heidi