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For many reasons, I was never afraid of Covid-19. When you’re a freelance cultural worker, a certain amount of fear for the future is included in the job description. A disease that I can possibly die from, but that can make me cough just as easily, is just another thing you can write on the list to be a little worried about low intensity.
Also, I lived a relatively risk-free life. Even before the plague broke out, the funniest thing I knew was laying on a couch and reading books.
Even when I was actually infected with Covid-19, I wasn’t scared. Not because it’s harsh in any way, but because I was too sick to care. “That’s probably what I thought,” I thought when the test came back positive and then I slept for two days.
I only freaked out after a few days when I tried to read a book.
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I only freaked out after a few days when I tried to read a book. My favorite hobby. My life is constant. It did not work. Sure, I understood what the words meant, but after a decimeter of text, I got lost. I tried another. There too. Which wasn’t really that strange. He suffered from a rather serious illness. When people die, I should be grateful that the worst thing that happened to me was that I became a little stupid in my head.
But reading books is an important part of my identity. Who am I even if I can’t dedicate myself to it?
Maybe you should put aside all fine cultural pretensions and try something simple, like a Lee Child book? My most blatantly friendly guilty pleasure. Tough porn for tired dads. Each book has, without exaggeration, exactly the same action. One should go down, right?
It hasn’t been that long without reading an entire book since I started reading regularly.
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It did not work. After some page, I got lost and again, with a lot of self-loathing, I took out the iPad to watch videos on Youtube. It’s been about three weeks since I was told I had Covid-19 and I haven’t been able to read anything in all that time. It hasn’t been that long without reading an entire book since I started reading regularly. From being a reader, now I am, well, what? Someone who watches clips of cute dogs and goes to bed early. The worst thing is that it is certainly sad, but at the same time I don’t have the strength to worry so much. And since people are dying, I’m going to fuck around whining.
But progress slowly. The appetite, another thing that disappeared, has returned. Work, sustained by naps, 100% again. Tonight I started reading the thriller “The Visitors” by Catherine Burns. I made it 20 pages before I fell asleep. But I fell asleep with a smile.
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