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By Morgaine Rivera, Div. 156
I am currently typing this entry while trying to fend off my cat that keeps attacking me. Each time I go in to type he starts to bite my hand and lay on the keyboard, but I guess that’s the price to pay for my artistic excellence. I don’t even know what he has to complain about, although I guess he technically has been in quarantine his whole life, so him going crazy at times is sort of relatable. In this house, where nothing changes and everything is wild at the same time, it seems as if everyone is trying to gain a semblance of security and normality. I know I am. I desperately try to find something to hold onto to keep me sane, like a stranger holding onto another while a ghoulish looking clown jumps out at you in a haunted house. I had gotten to the point where I would willingly clean the house-a rather unnatural thing for me to do- just to feel the weight on my shoulders flutter away. But while there are no longer bodybuilder weights in my bookbag, the heaviness I feel still lingers. It could be because I just have terrible posture when I sit, but the snap crackle and pop that happens when my back turns into a glowstick still does nothing to quell the tenseness in my bones. It doesn’t help any that we have turned into drones. Teachers and doctors used to advise us to not be on our phones that much, that the hours we spent are slowly killing us, can ruin our sleep, and our lives. But now, we sit in front of a screen for hours, like sinking into mulch, or eating bread with an unsalted saltine cracker on top.
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