It’s Week 8, or 9, and I’m losing track of time. The days are getting longer and all my jackets have swiftly moved into storage. How did that even happen?
Time has come to a halt. We’re living a never-ending Sunday morning – usually a personal favourite – with quiet streets, closed shops and silence only broken by squarrilling teens or the shrill of sirens.
Getting out of your comfort zone is already a challenge on itself, but even more so when you’re mostly confined in between four walls with in your own company.
As many people are doing around the world, I turn my attention almost exclusively to plants and exercise. Cooking is now a established habit and I enjoy coming up with new flavours just for me.
Is this what being an adult feels like? I wonder.
And yet habit is no mask for the overbearing boredom. I find that what’s truly deteriorating my mental health and sense of self is not loneliness, but a lack of purpose and excitement to break up my day.
Sure, I try to write and go running. I debate whether I should try cycling. I replay imaginary arguments in my head over and over and over again. But there’s no purpose. No reason to just do anything.
I water the plants, I scroll mindlessly and go to bed.
I feel guilty. For feeling bored, for not improving being productive. For missing people I shouldn’t miss. For being safe.