I’m not entirely sure what I could say about the year that hasn’t been said.
That we received several decades in the span of eight months. That the year still has a fourth left. That every day is the same. That a return to normalcy seems like a lifetime away.
This unyielding asshole, nadir of a year has been more than we ever bargained for. And I would like to offer a moment to collectively lament the losses we’ve suffered.
Many have lost loved ones, and many more have lost a tether to our future selves. Everything we planned for didn’t materialize and everything we didn’t — did.
This piece isn’t to rant or bemoan what’s happened and how unfair it is, which is an undoubtedly privileged position, but a branching offer to grieve in reflection.
A lot has happened this year, mostly all bad. And like the armchair psychologist I am, I think it’s okay to feel a little upset about this.
Time will pass and we’ll hopefully get through this, but in the meanwhile, I’d like to recognize the trauma we’ve endured in this moment of stifled melancholy.
Maybe the most frustrating aspect of this global crisis is how ill prepared we were for this; how ill prepared we were to accept the unexpected spring of stagnation and decline.
A strange unspoken phenomena of the modern world is that there’s a supposition we move forward in a linear direction: upwards. It’s certainly understood that there will be hiccups, there always is, but I think the collective assumption is that we wouldn’t regress. Especially to this extent.
There is something to be said about pushing forward and braving this storm. I think that’s a topic of discussion for another day.
In the meanwhile, I think we have earned a solemn moment to mourn our lost futures — and eventually plan for what’s next.