The Bounty Crop of COVID19

I am sickened of the anger.

Hate is exhausting.

Humorless, offended, righteous, anger judges all but itself because it denies any perspective but it’s own.

Hatred towards what is not done.

Hatred for what is being done.

Hatred for who is doing what is being done.

Hatred for what has been done.

Angry predictions from our fears are unrelenting to the point where hope is hated as deception and ignorance.

It distorts my mind in response, but in this period of sequester there are few distractions from it. Any screen is screaming. Forget the content, it screams.

The flip side is only sleep. And turning the eyes inward, that means dreams, now the bounty crop of COVID19. Dreams are now so vivid, so compelling they break you from sleep like a collision with something: What?

So real, so intricate that the thought that these dreams are tiny electro-chemical creations is simply inadequate. Memories, fears, observations, projections casually float through your inert slumber until, BANG – the explosion of terror, fear, or just dread and loathing.

These mutations of COVID19 are everywhere, and there is no vaccine for that either. We may becoming intimate with our homes, but we are also close-dancing every night with our minds. Not the thinking mind, but the fearing one – bathed in fear, suckled on anger, the night terrors of a screaming season are harder to take with every sweaty drenched pillow.