VI. Stagnancy; plague, fog, growth
Stagnant water is something to avoid. In summertime, stagnant water breeds mosquitoes, illness, death. Smell. When stagnant, the air feels like a blanket. I often worry about being stagnant, and we all do. We must grow, grow, grow, lest--until--we perish. When does a growing plant rest? Illness has made the world stagnant. Death and illness rampage, while some of us are given the gift to stagnate. Stagnation becomes a gift when the alternative is exposure; it is a privilege to stay home and waste away while others must risk their lives to keep our little society moving. Why, then, doesn't it feel that way? Why does it instead feel like a mind that refuses to unravel in any useful way, a body that feels sluggish, resistant to motion. How can we understand growth under circumstances that pull its ability further and further apart? Do I grow more in the privacy of my room, my string lights glancing off my irises as I lay on the floor, heavy with depression, wondering when things will move again, when I will have control again?