Still, we're not required to don a mask. Had another outing today, on foot. My friendly pharmacist tells me they're in surplus here. An open box sits beckoning on the counter, chock full, prompting a little probe from me. Beautiful baby blue masks in abundance — the old gears start grinding away, smoke and steam begins to press against the relief valve somewhere in my addled head. I hit the kill switch and carry on.
Lovely people. We had a bit of a chuckle as I loaded up with various meds and potions and cacao nibs which they were noticeably down on; sesame seeds, nuts and such. I have a cunning plan, driven by a beard that's forcing my masking hand. Standard masks won't serve and I happen to like this old dog that's locked itself onto my chin. Thing is, I haven't been asked to implement this plan. I'm good and ready — it works like a charm — but I'm hoping like mad that there'll be no need for it. Not willing to bet on that yet, either way. Getting real's a bridge to far but I'm cool. Docility's not alien to me. I stand guard, await my orders.
Taming the anxiety is doable / done, most of the time, to the point where functioning begins. Working still to stay abreast of the story-at-hand — with its shifting, desert-like, sometimes blinding, sands — with very clean, cloistered hands, and only doing what's possible, or sensible. Holding my beliefs tentatively, keeping some energy in reserve. Steady as she goes. That's my remedy.
There are many pitfalls, none of them beyond mastery, as long as one can stave off the dreaded lurgy and its more unseemly effects, banish the bastard. If it hits, we'll cross that bridge. Measures taken in readiness. All is not lost. Fighting on. But being kind.