There's a certain restlessness that refuses to be shaken off. An underlying tension over some personal matters has manifested in a headache since this afternoon, resulting in a complete lack of energy to work. For the most part I've been able to distract myself by working on, and staring at, the garden (which is looking very promising at this point) and reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
I've been germinating seeds with the paper towel method, which has been working very well, except for the tedious procedure of having to dislodge the seeds to transplant them in containers after successful germination. I read that just a touch of the tap root may lead to instant seedling death, which makes the transplanting a matter of grave responsibility. I think next time I will sow the seeds straight on soil and just cover the moist earth with something to keep the moisture consistent.
Two friends (in different countries) had had Covid symptoms, and both were confirmed to be negative yesterday. However they did go through weeks of fever and anxiety before going to the doctor's and receiving their diagnoses. This is a very bad time to fall sick. The mental toll itself is enough to lower one's immunity, plus the complete lack of social support at a time of physical distancing.
I'm about halfway through One Hundred Years of Solitude and it is tremendously well written. At the same time I feel a sense of nostalgia, fatalism, and a long passage of time. Of an eternal cycle of similar differences and different similarities being perpetuated in humanity and humanness. Over and over, the Aurelianos and Jose Arcadios.
The underlying sadness persists.
The headache is heading towards a pool of tasteless saliva at the bottom of my tongue and a lump of bitterness in my throat and a tight, sour heaviness in my chest. Time to stop looking at the screen.