It’s been raining for days now. I was planning to post my review of “Gone Girl”, but I find myself unable to form the words for it. As wonderful as it feels to be allowed to work from home, my body–my skin, my flesh, my bones, the pores and trenches between them–seem to have soaked up the gloom and damp of the weather. On the way to work, the revived rainfall caused some minor flooding in front of the office building that some of us had to wade through just to get to our cubicles.
(One officemate points out that this is FAR from reassuring, considering the fact that we work underground. Literally.)
The way back home was even worse.
My Facebook timeline is flooded–pun intended–with images and reports of calamitous events. Some of the people we work with are stuck in areas with rising water. Other folks (and I hope that none of the people I know need to suffer through this) are staying on their rooftops and waiting for rescue. We thought the worst was over, but we were wrong. So very, very wrong.
I am lucky, of course, but the awareness of misfortune–carried in molecules in the air, invading my lungs, filling me with irrational survivor’s guilt–push me to melancholy. I am filled with paralyzing sadness that I do not think I deserve to feel.
Thank god for work. There is something else to think about.