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As I sit here heading into another Covid lockdown, this time from the Delta variant, I ponder about our future. Will Covid Sars-2 prove to be our dinosaur extinction moment? Will the Homo sapien’s story end here at the hands of a virus. Perhaps a virus engineered in a laboratory in Wuhan, China, which was funded by American corporate interests. It all sounds like a scenario drawn from the pages of an airport bookstore thriller. However, over 4 million people have lost their lives from this pandemic and deaths are not slowing up anytime soon.
A World Racing to Get Vaccinated
The world is racing to get vaccinated in an attempt to beat this Coronavirus. Will these vaccinations hold up in the face of a rapidly mutating virus? Will the virus outsmart our efforts by adapting faster than we can? As I look around the deserted streets and shop in supermarkets populated by mask wearing individuals, I wonder whether we will make it out of this pandemic alive. The changing face of society and the endless public health orders are dampening spirits everywhere. Some of us are bursting with frustration and rage. Some of us are dying slowly inside.
Nobody is Really Watching This Race to the Finish
Is the writing on the wall with this virus dancing just out of reach of our best cures? Is my dead leg a sign of my worsening cabin fever? Will I perish from the respiratory disease post infection, or will my worsening mental health state pre-empt the final solution? Watching Olympic athletes run around in deserted stadiums I wonder about the future of humanity? Is the clock ticking down faster than any stopwatch set poolside? Are we racing into an oblivion where there won’t be any podium finishes for victors? There won’t be any national anthems playing not even a dirge for those rushing. Nobody is really watching this race to the finish.
A spiky protein wins this competition, and we are condemned to last place. The human race is lost. My tracksuit pants are not made of Lycra, in fact, they are kind of dumpy looking. My couch is littered with the detritus of lockdown living. Remote controls for TV screens and crumpled cushions for my back pain. The darkened room is closing in on my confined consciousness. The starter’s gun has fired but my dead leg is refusing to respond to commands involving movement. Not even commentary by Bruce McAvaney can get me up for this final event.
