March 19th, 2020: Day 3 of my Absolute, [Maybe-Not-]Soon-to-Be Government-Mandated Quarantine//Day 9 of my School’s Earlier, Precautionary One.
Photography by Ami J. Sanghvi.
It’s only on these nights when I am in bed alone, listening to Pink Floyd and letting their notes and poetry rip me limb from limb, that I know I’m on the verge of something.
Whether that something is to be wondrous or disastrous is yet to be known, and yes, I know I should be sleeping. I know I shouldn’t be letting this album undo all my sense and stitches. I know I should be doing literally anything else right now.
But, if I’m being honest, I should probably always be sleeping, and I should probably always be doing something other than what I tend to do instead. The amount of destruction I inflict upon myself and the air around me when I’m awake is honestly appalling. The way I feel and do and say things is sometimes damaging – less now than in days before, but still unsafe nevertheless.
Even this – what I’m writing now – is unsafe. It’s not tame; it’s not neat; it’s filled with the same energy and passion they give me pills to suppress.
But, trapped within the confines of my own home and self, this is the best time for me to take a risk – to be mad, to be sad, to be insane, kind of how I used to be at all the wrong times…
Because now, this is the right time.
It’s finally the right time.
I looked over my Instagram earlier today, and discovered I couldn’t stand the look of it anymore. Suddenly, all the white borders around my photos felt too blinding to me, too cheap, and the captions below my images all seemed empty, even if they weren’t at the time I wrote them.
Before I could stop myself, I was archiving every single post from the period of my life immediately preceding the quarantine.
Today, I will start over: same photos, different captions… same photos, different perspectives… same photos, more gratefulness…
More on that later, though, since there’s still plenty more work to be done.
Also, how lucky are we all to be alive?