Captain's Log, Day 14
Captain's Log, Day 14
A fortnight. Whoever could have imagined that we would have made it here, only to realise this is the tip of the iceberg?
I must admit my spirits were low today. This pestilence has taken its toll on me, on my mind and body. The health of my mind is sub-par on a normal day but this grinding, this incessant pounding of an unstoppable force combined with the removal of my usual coping mechanisms has worn me down.
Today I spent far too long lost in what had been taken away from me. My adventures for this year have dissolved between my fingers, my friends are forever two metres away, my martial arts training all but gone. There is always money to worry about, of course. Always grandparents and parents and sickly crew members who live on the shore, so close I can almost grab them, but always too far away.
But there is always the gift of perspective. There is the understanding (knowing? because I do not understand) of ice rinks turned to morgues, of mass graves large enough to be seen from space. There are people saying goodbye to loved ones through the crackling of plastic, dying alone in an empty room. Health professionals - damn heroes - giving their everything while I sit in my cabin and wallow in self-pity.
I still have my crew. I have a home, a dog, a notebook, food to eat, and a degree to chase. I still have friends, though they are further away than I would have liked. There will always be kindness, and music. We have each other. And we will always have the stars.
A fortnight. Whoever could have imagined that we would have made it here, only to realise this is the tip of the iceberg?
I must admit my spirits were low today. This pestilence has taken its toll on me, on my mind and body. The health of my mind is sub-par on a normal day but this grinding, this incessant pounding of an unstoppable force combined with the removal of my usual coping mechanisms has worn me down.
Today I spent far too long lost in what had been taken away from me. My adventures for this year have dissolved between my fingers, my friends are forever two metres away, my martial arts training all but gone. There is always money to worry about, of course. Always grandparents and parents and sickly crew members who live on the shore, so close I can almost grab them, but always too far away.
But there is always the gift of perspective. There is the understanding (knowing? because I do not understand) of ice rinks turned to morgues, of mass graves large enough to be seen from space. There are people saying goodbye to loved ones through the crackling of plastic, dying alone in an empty room. Health professionals - damn heroes - giving their everything while I sit in my cabin and wallow in self-pity.
I still have my crew. I have a home, a dog, a notebook, food to eat, and a degree to chase. I still have friends, though they are further away than I would have liked. There will always be kindness, and music. We have each other. And we will always have the stars.
Stay strong! I know this is taking longer than any of us ever thought it would (and it may prove longer than we yet think). Even though we're far apart, we're all in this together and there are always things to be thankful for.
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