I make promises to myself sometimes – simple things – easy promises to make. “I’ll start forcing myself to take lunchbreaks”, for example. And then I look up – like I did today – and realise it’s the middle of the afternoon, and that lunchtime happened for everybody else some time ago.
Then you walk into the kitchen in search of something quick to make (ah, the wonders of working from home), only to discover the rest of the household filled the sink with washing up during the morning, the clothes you hung outside to dry before breakfast time are now being rained on, and the cats are demanding food really quite furiously.
Before you know it, the day has gone. Yes – you dragged a work project forward another few inches – but a little more of you has been eroded. The friends you used to keep in touch with heard nothing from you once again. The little light in Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, G-Mail, or wherever else that indicates that “you exist” didn’t light up.
While submerged in the invention of an unfathomably complex thing that you can’t write about on public platforms, the rest of the world continued turning. People laughed, talked, watched, listened, played, and hung out together – without you. You tell yourself that you didn’t want to be there anyway – that the social networks are not social – that the internet is filled with idiots. And yet you quietly wish you were at least a little involved in something, somewhere.
Maybe tomorrow will be different. You never can tell.