It’s been a while since my last post. So much has happened. So much is yet to happen. I haven’t completely disappeared. Most of my thoughts have been confined to the Instagram. There is something about a thousand words and pictures. You know how the saying goes.

I’m currently into my third year here in Paris. I haven’t been home since the spring of 2018. Home. I’ve always been a bit nomadic. Or, maybe, more of an itinerant – the wandering part. Lately, I find it difficult to focus on work. Since my last post, I’ve completed two drafts of a novel. I’m halfway through a third. The first draft, BC (Before Corona) was completed in less than 6 months. The second draft – a few days before the start of the first lockdown. This third draft is going rather slowly. There are days that I – my physical being – am simply stuck. A pandemic will do that.

As I write this, I am awaiting news of yet another lockdown. I think it will be the third. France is currently on curfew. We are only allowed out from 6 am to 6 pm. It’s frustrating. I know I shouldn’t complain. After all, we are not at war. There are no bombs. No one holding me at gunpoint. But… But. It is what it is. I’m anxious. Stressed. Filled with so much uncertainty. I know I’m not alone – although I am.

My family back home, in the States, have already been fully vaccinated. They are first responders. I joke about them being my Zombie family. When FaceTiming, I check to see if a third eye has broken through to the surface of their foreheads. I have no idea if, or when, I’ll be vaccinated. I turn fifty-one in three months. I have asthma. My asthma is, sometimes, stress induced. I’ve had a couple of attacks; I keep my inhaler close by, as well as a course of steroids on hand. I barely sleep. Maybe I’m the zombie.

This, too, shall pass. But when? But when? The only answer – in time. Time is the only thing for certain. No matter how fast it speeds up, or slows down.