Time has lost meaning. Well...days, not time. Without my usual routine I drift through the days, attempting discipline, promising myself each night I will be better: tomorrow I will create more, exercise more, care more, smile more...and every night I chastise myself for not doing more.
I stopped writing about my day because who wants to hear about something we're all experiencing? This is not a novelty or an experiment, it is a matter of life and death.
As I run through empty streets each morning it is only the pounding of my feet and the sound of our breath that makes our presence real. Even the April sun - more like June than spring - does not raise my soul as it once did.
I am setting myself small goals. Starting a book. Trying a new way to cook potatoes. Doing 10 sit-ups one morning.