The Massive Pause — Existentialism amidst the Pandemic

People generally view their basements as the room where the ‘afterthoughts’ go, like the old battered couch or the laundry machine that reminds you of maddening chores when you look at it. But I’ve always sneaked down here for a bit of quiet time.

There’s something oddly comforting about the way you’re both in this world and apart from it here, in a stage of duality, something of a middle ground between dimensions. The morose white walls just reinforce that feeling, as do the shelves stacked high with old clothes, books and what-nots from decades ago.

The house cat is here, of course, judging me out of the corner of her eye for being such a peace-disruptor and encroaching upon her territory.

Not that I care for her subtle inferred displeasure. You can find me here at odd hours, like right now, either penning poems that most definitely do not rhyme, or firing up the old PlayStation.

I guess the pandemic has brought with it the illusion of such a massive pause that it’s offered me a chance to revisit my childhood, when things seemed more carefree and less accountable, and the basement is the best place to experience it.