So it’s – roughly – the 2,704th Tuesday evening of my life and I’m fiddling with myself as Rome burns. No, not really. All the meds – those I’ve been prescribed and some rather more exotic ones donated by friends – have pretty much removed any interest in fiddling with anything. But Rome’s definitely burning, and instead of fiddling I’m kind of lolling around on the sofa, slack jawed and drooling, constantly having to drag my eyeballs back to the page when all they want to do is roll up in my head and contemplate the lid of my skull.
The world we’ve all known and loved is dying. Truth be told, it’s probably already dead and what we’re taking for signs of life are just the diminishing agonal spasms of a corpse. Everything not dead is dying. I feel death in myself. I wake in the night and hear it paused in mid creep out in the hallway. I feel it in the growing compendium of aches and pains and blisters and lumps. 2074 Tuesdays thus far, never to be revisited, and how ;many Tuesdays up ahead? Not that many. Certainly less than 2074. Probably less than a thousand. Probably a mere few hundred for me to smoke and drink and pop pills and wish away.
So, dear diary, this is where we are. The world seems to be being ravaged by a virus that came out of the corner swinging and looking like a real contender but now, a few rounds in, seems somewhat punch drunk and weary. No matter – our fear of it has already led to a resurgence in medieval thinking and revealed us to be the same old superstitious peasants we’ve always been – but with social media at our fingertips. Now we can argue with the entire world about whether the problem is the Jews poisoning the well, or which Jews in particular, or maybe it’s not the Jews at all – maybe it’s Bill Gates or white people or 5G or Donald Trump. Who knows? And who even cares about the truth anymore? There are cities burning, everything’s dying, I’ve got no money, my laptop is dying, everything’s rushing towards a narrowing in the river where we’re all going to get jammed and drowned among the broken twigs and angry beavers. Can’t be arsed.