I can’t stop thinking about uncertainty. My uncertainty. My friends’ uncertainties. The world’s uncertainty. At the risk of sounding like a privileged asshole, I’ll go ahead and say it aloud: this is the first time in my life I’ve actually let uncertainty sink down into the depths of my stomach-lining and acknowledge its existence.
The more it’s made itself a home in me, the more my stomach has churned in the wee hours of the morning, reminding me that my uncertain reality is still my reality — even while I’m supposed to be sleeping.
Some of my quarantined days have been spent enjoying my untethered chaos of a life. The general lack of structure and absence of a job has allowed me to spend my days on the patio of a houseboat I’m renting, working on a business I hope to launch, doodling, reading, or writing. And other days I get stuck wishing I knew exactly where I’ll be living next month.
You see, six months ago, I put my life in storage to start said business and travel around the world. The health pandemic forced me back “home,” but without a real home to hole up in while I wait out this quarantine. While my daily schedule really isn’t much different than life on the road, adding another unknown variable to the equation I use to mentally forecast my life has proven a bit challenging. We all crave a nice warm blanket when it feels cold, after all.
