Autumn

I had lost the rhythm I had had over the summer for writing and was eager to return. The frustrations of life were beginning to take hold - but I had started the slow process of trying to reacclimatise myself to daily activities that would support my health. Writing, for one, was in my blood, and needed an outlet. So: back to the page again.

The weather was now cold and yesterday great tides of rain battered the streets. The pandemic was still raging - though for most, it seemed to be raging far off. Cities had become paralysed once more as infections grew, cases doubling all the time. The spread was still at large, silently moving from one body to another, but the death rate was low. I looked back at myself in the mirror and thought of the 20s and the Spanish Flu and wondered what lives were lost during that period that might have had an impact on the world had they escaped the scourge of the virus. This one is different, however, as it seems to have proven mostly fatal to older and more vulnerable people. So the younger ones get a free pass - or so it seems, so far.

Frustration was billowing within me: I was desperate to be published and unleashed. The fire in my belly was raging, but I had no outlet: no friends to speak of, no agent, no literary connections. In short: I was short on people to call upon to get my voice heard. And even my will to write seemed futile - I could write, but how would I ever be heard? And who would ever listen? Bother to listen? It seemed that I was destined to be another down and out bum with no hopes.