It's the second (third?) day that I am sick. Is it the virus? Or just the triumphal return of my nose problems? Brought about by a strange return of the old memories of Poland?
The statistics, made public very late last night, indicate almost 87 thousand of new cases in the last 24 hours. Out of the depths of his Bedouin survival instinct, my husband says: it is the sign that the end of this pandemic is nigh. Is it? Constant exponential growth exists only in mathematics. In reality, there is always a point of breaking the wave.
I've been living on the bottom, honestly speaking, since I came to this flat and this country, six weeks ago. I really wonder what happens to me. My hands tremble, and I feel a strange disinterest in life. Not only in the books I've brought from the library. It is a singular void of dreams, fancies, desires.
Perhaps the only positive aspect of the current crisis is that the other Veronique finally died. It was difficult to break my relation with the old country, as difficult as it was, in a time, to break the relation with my family. Both inevitable, if I want to survive.
Poland is far from me now, the discourses that they go on reproducing like yet another viral machine, distant and isolated from the world. And it leaves me homeless and lost in the middle of the current situation, in the world in mutation. I am here, but I lack any attachment, including the attachment to the ground under my feet.
I should be attached to my studies, to my projects. I should grasp them as the only stable thing, I should be attached to my identity as a scholar, the only one that remains. Yet books don't captivate me, and my brain is like white cotton. I wish I was the scholar I used to be, I wish I could write learned articles again. But everything is empty, like this flat with white walls. I hate white walls. I miss a home in dark red, an Afghani carpet under my feet. I only want my life back, as it was, with only a tiny correction.
I suppose my salary, the biggest salary I ever touched in my life, is landing smoothly on my French account. One day, when the pandemic is over, I might be able to use this money to rebuild my life. To discover that, after all, the bottom was a metaphor.