Quarantine

Every morning starts the same. I look out the window and thank god I’m alive, that the sun rose once again. I stretch and meditate to connect with god and visualize my dreams. I then record those dreams in my journal, along with my current mood. It’s still early, so my mood is good, and that’s good for now. 

I take my coffee with a book about the chakras or astrology, fueled by phenomena qualifying the mystic as reality.

Perhaps my interest in the metaphysical thrives off the uncertainty of what I can perceive, and I assure myself that believing in something greater than this sense of “I” is better than believing in nothing. 

After a humid run, I practice yoga inside. Movement has always been my medicine, and I self-medicate accordingly. 

In the afternoon I read memoirs to learn about the lives of exceptional people, studying their writing styles to better craft my own. I do my best not to compare my editors’ notes of my unpublished manuscript to the accolades printed on the cover. I’m reminded that my blog has been my sole publisher all my career, wondering why I ever wrote my story in the first place. 

When dinner time comes, my hunger longs for something other than food. A pain that doesn’t rumble from my stomach, but from my gut. My shoulders hunch over as my eyes begin to swell, and I revert back to morning practices of mindfulness and labeling my mood. I assure myself, “I feel apprehensive, and that’s perfectly alright”

Unlike my post-meditative state, I’m in a shit mood. I’m doubtful and I am alone. I spiral into sorrow, imagining friends spending time with their partners, criticizing myself for not having a partner of my own. I think “how lucky they are, to be in love in a time of isolation, to have someone to hold when we’ve been asked to stay separate”. I think of how I couldn’t date someone if I wanted to, and I don’t want to. 

What I want is love and what I’ve learned from meditation and all things metaphysical is that like attracts like. That love attracts love. 

The wrench in my gut turns as I realize that I’ve worked so hard to love myself, though the love I have for my friends and family comes effortlessly. I cry as I wonder why love hasn’t come so effortlessly back, and I wonder if it’s because there’s something wrong with me. 

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I then retreat to the exercises I’ve learned through YouTube about raising vibration, and do the one thing I have control of in this life, because love certainly isn’t one of them. 

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I become still. I become present. I focus on whatever is in front of me until my thoughts dissipate, and before a new thought emerges I tell myself this:

I can be loved and alone at the same time. Solitude is a gift, as it brings me closer to god. This builds trust within myself and source. And that makes me one of the lucky ones.