This text was written as I learn to live with Long Covid and attempt to regain my creativity. All the posts and some more info can be found here.
I.
The curtains are drawn tight and I cannot tell if it is light outside. I know from the time on my phone it is daytime but not much beyond this. My partner dozes next to me. I do not want to wake her up so linger in bed with my eReader. The faint amber glow from its screen illuminates my face and the black words on the page. I read as traffic picks up, a distant background hum that marks the rhythm of days at home. The robins sing to the morning.
II.
Later, when my partner has left for work and I am alone, I migrate to the living room with a pile of books and notebooks. I read and take notes. I brew a tea and drink the earthy warmth of it. I am unaware of the passage of time save for the darkening of the room. The houses behind ours swallow the light and make me squint at the pages in front of me.
III.
The following day I cancel my swim my M. It's been over a week since I have last been soothed by the lake but today is not the day I return to the water. My body bleeds and my woolly mind wavers. I could swim, I know that, but I cannot linger to socialise and this is part of the deal when I have no solo mode of transportation available to me. M. is coming soon though. I am baking a French cheese tart of her, to make up for a trip to Lille she had to cancel due to her bad ankle.
IV.
M. arrives and the house smells of a dairy farm, of hay and something sweet. We chat and eat and I remember how lovely it is to welcome people in my home, to cook for people and to share food and lazy chats. When she leaves, I prepare to head for the dentist.
V.
The dentist works away at my plaque. The drill, shrill and high pitch hurts my ears, makes me wince. She lowers it down a setting and I pretend it is better. When she offers a polish, I decline, unwilling to remain in the chair for a moment longer. Back home I return to my books, to a woody cup of tea. My body gradually relaxes in the quiet of the living room, in the warmth of the drink.
VI.
Sunday comes and I am restless. I want to go out, to see space without a house in sight. I want to lean against a tree, sit in a muddy patch of grass. I want to feel the wind on my skin and shiver from the cold. I scroll on a map to find locations to drive to and all the while I know I will not get out of the house. Cooking the tart, spending time with M. , the dentist, and the long long busy week just before have been too much. I have to rest. Tears flow as I let the thought anchor itself, my body rooted on the floor of the house. My partner holds me tight.
VII.
We move to the kitchen and start to empty the cupboards full of years of clutter. We discard and rearrange, spend a few hours going through each cupboard, tidying and cleaning. We sit and drink glasses of water. Finally, we make a pile for the recycling centre and my partner heads to the shop for some bread to make a sandwich for lunch. I finish cleaning and wonder if going out would not have been better than all this effort. Probably not. At least, in the kitchen I could sit and my leg is barely twitching.
VIII.
We eat and watch yet more reruns of Murder, She Wrote. I copy notes from my recent research about medieval history from the messy notebook to the clean notebook. I am not sure why I write so many notes, why I take so much care in copying them. I suspect the answer to be as simple as because I enjoy it.