Let No One Burst Your Bubble

Up and rested. A little yoga flow, a cup of coffee, and the keyboard. I bought myself a reMarkable after more than a year of back and forth about the gadget. A gadget to solve a gadget problem seems odd.

But I do love a Gadget. Gorgeous Gadfly.

This morning my body feels open, but my mind is empty. Too clear. I had a dream about my irresponsibility. And what it cost.

As though I’d need a reminder.

So I feel like a conduit just scraped with a pipe cleaner. Raw where scratched. The lightest breeze stings. Ambivalence seems to be a word for the morning.

My calendar is peppered with activities. After two years of just E. and me, and work, the idea of dinner with friends is daunting. I am trying to ease back into a normal social life while holding tight to what I have enjoyed about the isolation. And to keep writing in silence. Protecting my joy.

That sounds lofty.

How about “protecting my bubble”?

We’re all sniffing and sneezing at work. But the virus feels more like an inconvenience than a threat at this point. Still, at night I wake still and believe I’m sick. Two years of this kind of subconscious fixation must have dug deep grooves into my psyche. And I doubt I’m alone.

The guilt of a forgotten face mask. Or a poorly (self-)administered test. A careless touch on the shoulder. When the self-serving impulse that spurs a gesture of comfort is suddenly evident. I wonder how to move past this hyperawareness, this self-censoring of the body.

Two of three Norwegians want to keep the restrictions in place. Why doesn’t that surprise me?

The “freedoms from” that they offer are significant.

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