What they don't tell you about the end of the world

What they don't tell you about the end of the world is that there are still nice days. That there are still sunny days, where the blue sky goes on and on and on.  It's the beginning of spring, so more sunny days are probably ahead.  That's something that they don't tell you about the end of the world--that it begins in the spring.  But today is a grey day and it matches the grey freeway and the grey mood.  This is what you expect of the end of the world, dreariness and drabness and ominous mood.

The end of the world is walking past empty research buildings, save for men in orange jackets and masks hauling out desks and equipment into trash bins on the side of the road.  The end of the world is walking onto a empty campus, save for the white testing tents outside of the hospital. The end of the world is carding into an empty building wth dimly lit hallways, riding up a shambling elevator that reeks of urine--that once stopped with you stuck in it, but you don't take the stairs anymore after you listened to  nurses and doctors and researchers in the stairwell crying and yelling and whispering into their phones.  The end of the world is walking into your fancy windowed office, and walking past your desk because they never got around to giving you a computer, so you just enter into the next office over, sit hunched at a narrow desk, amongst the artifacts of someone you've never met.  At the end of the world, you're sitting at an old and failing computer. The end of the world is looking at pictures of someone else's son and wondering where they are and if they'll miss that ruler you've been eyeing. The end of the world is reading emails.

The end of the world is feeling like you're sneaking into clinic.  It's walking through the side entrance, past the stocky man covered in protective gear, mask and eye shield.  It's having no where to sit because we can't get too close to anyone.  It's listening to people apologize and telling voices on the phone to stay home, to stay safe. The end of the world is lying to your family and telling them you haven't been in clinic.

The end of the world is driving past marquees that tell you to stay safe, stay home, avoid gatherings and to wash your hands, amongst the billboards telling you SoCal Residents Come to Disneyland! and Toyota Days, Come and Go!  There isn't a lot of traffic at the end of the world, save for the drivers driving too fast, and too many remains of popped tires and spare parts.  There are still so many car accidents at the end of the world.  There are police cars patrolling every street at the end of the world and the end of the block.  The end of the world is fast and grey and 20 minutes to LAX.

The end of the world is getting drunk with your friends and not with your friends, watching their faces online  and illuminated, barely looking human but still friendly, and knowing that that day, people in the hospital quietly met to discuss who was worth saving.  The end of the world is text messages saying not to worry and wondering who is lying. 

The end of the world is dog videos, treading lightly and so many voices telling you to wash your hands.  The end of the world is empty streets and sunny days.  The end of the world is holding your breath and wondering if the tightness in your chest is death or heartbreak or panic.  At the end of the world, your bills are still due. 

What they don't tell you about the end of the world is that it is only the end of your world, not the end of THE world, and that it is spring and there are still sunny days ahead. 

My notes: I think the fun thing about this is that it COULD be about a break up or y'know, a disease hitting Los Angeles. 

PSA

I'm gonna do a writing challenge!

I've got 28 writing prompts and stale tortilla chips.

Let's do labels: YT tries to get her grove back, quarantine thoughts and writing challenge.

Let's try to do a writing challenge per day, with forgiveness on Thursdays.

Is this how you do this?  Eh, fuck it.

No heroes, no villains, only survivors.

Baby, I promise I didn't come crawling back to you because all the things I usually would have filled my time with have been taken away from me.  Baby, I promise this time I'll stay. Baby, you believe me, right?

I'm trying to ignore that my last post is still the thing I am struggling through aka "What does it mean to live creatively?"  Maybe I don't write anymore because it forces me to confront how little I've actually accomplished and/or how little I have to say?  Naaaaah.  That can't be it. Maybe if I focus my writing?  On what though?  Does it matter?  Is writing even part of my version of "living creatively?"

What story do I have to tell?  What experiences can I share?  What's relatable?  Is trying to work through my decade long writer's block just another distraction from dealing with what is front of me? Is trying to organize and make my creativity productive actually stifling it?  Maybe.  Maybe the goal is just getting through this.

Yeah, yeah. I get it. Bad things are happening.  Bad things are happening, and I care a lot about those bad things.  But, being oversaturated with grief, feels a lot like not caring at all.

I stopped to stare at my phone for like five minutes just now and just scrolled through more of the same: Covid19, Covid19, Covid19, funny animal video.  Whenever things get too heavy, I fidget with my phone.

It feels surreal to know that huge swathes of humanity are being extinguished, and we still have all the funny dog videos at our disposal. It's surreal to drive on the freeway and see marquees telling me to wash my hands and stay away from people, alongside Disneyland ads.  Is this how the world ends?  Just feeling out of place and dissatisfied?

I checked my phone again and watched an ad about a blanket.  It was better than sitting with those feelings, I guess.

This morning, I did half a yoga class before my connection was so spotty that I gave up.  An hour later, I joined up with another yoga group--not fitness yoga, but spiritual yoga--and chanted and meditated as a group.  Instead of feeling connected to either experience, I felt like a fraud, a spiritual tourist.  Sometimes saffron is just orangey-red.  Sometimes the machine has to chose who to save, before the wave hits.  Sometimes you  need to make it procedural and matter of fact, so that when the choice is in front of you, the part of you that is part of the machine, makes THAT choice.

Oh wow, that's still bothering me. So it goes and goes and goes.

I check emails, I check emails, I check emails.  I watch hundreds of Youtube videos. I add a inspirational quote to my bullet journal.  I work on my handstands.  I imagine how it would look like if I snapped my wrists.  I move through some asanas. I vow to be better.  I vow to be better.  Maybe I'll get tired on my own bullshit. My hands are flakey from all the alcohol spray.

Hey, I'm sorry.  I'll try to be better. Hey, I'm already feeling better.