A N.Y Times Post stated that the COVID-19 pandemic has shorten all of our life-expectancy down by a year. My thumb hovered over the Instagram screen.
The black letters against the white background look liked how I felt reading it.
I still grieve life before the pandemic.
Life before this subtle undercurrent of constant unease. I still paint what my life would’ve looked like, a spin-off, of what if the pandemic didn’t happen.
It replays like warm nostalgia and then shuts off like a glitched VHS tape.
I used to salsa dance. Often. When I went to a pre-dominantly white liberal college in upstate New York, I needed music that could I sway my hips to.
Jamaican patties could be empanadas for a night, if I could paste bachata steps over a reggaeton beat so I could dutty wine.
I used to run around in fields of music at hippie-centered music festivals, immersed in music. Music that blended genres, technique, and sound. And as a huge soul music fan, I needed to see the way artists were honoring old and new. That oneness of my body, the energy of many. Now still riddled with different levels of questions and risk-assessment.
Some trips feel safe. Then other days those same ones feel unsafe. It’s a new layer of assessing risks that eerily reminds me, like a cosmic joke that won’t stop playing, all of life is risk.
It’s the loss of the erotic. The loss of creative synergy and newness. All of the senses being stimulated. Don’t worry about me, though. I’ve came up with a plan to tap into it again. I will create a mini-space of salsa night. In my ears and with some friends, soon.
These feelings aren’t going to stay the same, I know. That’s actually not problem, doing the new thing to replace the old one. It’s doing the new thing, while the remedy to ease the pain, is still the a reminder the old ting doesn’t exist.