Time almost feels a little meaningless right now.
It has been—
—more than two years since the pandemic started.
—28 years since my first fully-formed memory (of my father waking me up in a cab)
—2 days since I zoned out and dissociated while I was taking the train, that I don’t remember when and how I got through the motion of tapping when when I got out of the station, until I was halfway on my bus ride
—24 days since I last wrote an entry
—4 months, roughly, since my official diagnosis of what the fuck’s up with my back
—2 years and 10 months since the last time I was out of the country
—2 weeks since I got my new passport
—Many, many months since I’ve focused on reading
Anyway. Work has ramped up to be completely wild, yet again. I wistfully read articles about people quietly quitting, knowing I’m the opposite of that.