essay on my expirence during quarantine
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Answer:
nice
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Answer:
Explanation:
the lockdown has provided me a long-awaited solace—and ever since, I have been trying to condense a year’s worth of thoughts on paper. Every day I sit, pen in hand, hoping against hope that it will start to glide as soon as the perfect words come to my mind. Those words do not form, and I spend hours on end staring at the blank whiteness, dwelling in a desperate silence—is this the dreaded writer’s block, then?
So, each night I lay in my bed feeling pathetic about not having done anything productive. And I try to convince myself that we can always cling to hope when everything else fails.
I tell myself that this is the time to channel my concentration into doing something useful. But I simply cannot. My mind is disturbed with the sufferings around me—people dying trying to get home, nearly half the population down to their last penny of savings? People at this time have been reduced to mere statistics, which tends to fuel fear every passing day. I tune my ear to the news in hope of hearing something heartening, something to hold on to, but all I hear is a manifold increase in the number of infections and deaths. In the face of such a massive global crisis, my worries about my own anxieties and a silly writer’s block matter little.
The afternoon passes. With the onset of evening, the news channels inform us that the numbers have risen. I stare at the sky long enough to see the sun disappear, as a frightening silence engulfs me again.
These days, I utter a prayer to no one in particular, every night before going to sleep—a prayer born out of helplessness and despair. I drift off to the tune of Harry Styles’ ‘Sign of the Times’. The lines “We can meet again somewhere/Somewhere far away from here” keep coming back to me—and I wish, each day, that we wake up the next morning in a place far from where we are now.