As I write this, I sit huddled in the dark in my mismatched living room. It’s a rare moment of quiet in my home. Snow is on the ground, which means Christmas is coming, but I just...I don’t feel it.
I usually throw myself into the season - pop punk Christmas tunes blare through my tiny little speakers as I nibble on stollen and hook baubles on my little plastic tree. I wander the distillery market, marveling in the smell of a wood bonfire and fried dough and gingerbread spice. I sit by the fire and drink chai and watch my favorite movies in my decorated home.
But it doesn’t feel like the season this year.
It feels like summer has gotten colder.
It feels like time has gotten less linear. This year is so long and so short. I’m reminded of the opening line of Gaiman’s “Other People”.
“Time is fluid here,” said the demon.”
And it does feel like we’re in a darker place these days, doesn’t it? Hope is a plant that has been downtrodden underneath our feet. It’s not dead, but it’s bruised and small and not flourishing.
I loved dystopian novels when I was a child. I dreamed of living in Brave New World and how I’d survive.
Dystopia, as it turns out, is less of a thrilling concept when you’re in it.
This year has been simultaneously so thrilling and yet so boring.
Who knew that living through such historical events would be such a yawn?
...or maybe I’m just disconnecting and disassociated from reality because feeling things, feeling every way about everything, is so exhausting.
I know all these feelings are so selfish. I should be grateful to just be safe and exhausted when so many are suffering so much this year.
I just...I just don’t know what to do with my time besides lay in a darkened, ramshackle little room in my rare moment of quiet, trying my hardest not to break the silence with screams.
Cyberpunk photos by Andrea Hunter
