I've been meaning to return to Camus. I first read La Peste in 1987. It changed my life. How a people could be so aware of their own existence haunted me. And that existence, under threat from an invisible enemy, challenged their very reason for living; made them look deep into their souls to see what the true meaning of it all really was.
I remember walking on Brighton beach one evening around 1988 with S, my very best friend. I asked her what she made of all the pebbles, shining from the surf, all pretty much identical. For they were as plentiful as all of mankind. So many pebbles, so many humans. And we, some of those poor humans, crunching our way along the moonlit expanse, were as insignificant as each of they were. Our life is meaningless. For what reason are we here? We are without reason, devoid of meaning. Each a pebble.
You can obviously draw parallels between the plague that descends upon the town of Oran, for which there is no meaning, those pebbles on the beach, and the current Covid experience. Why are we here, is the obvious question. If it is to suffer a painful end of breathlessness. Why would any god put us through that, or the fear of that?
So I ask myself, what is the meaning of my existence now, confined to my apartment, listening to free Jazz via Alexa, listening to lying politicians who tell us they have miraculously reached 100,000 tests a day, when they haven't, to the Brexit lies about the utopia that awaits those who remain alive? What is the reason for all of this? Why do I have to put up with this?
It is truly Hell that is these other people. They torment me with their deceit. I don't need these people. I prefer to enjoy my confinement like it will always be like this. The jazz is a bit monotonous but I can always pause it to listen to the silence. Except there is no silence. I must endure the heavy stomper upstairs, or the drug dealer across the hallway who bangs his door when he rushes downstairs to deal a hit, or the crazies in the building across the road who wake me at 5am every morning, tapping on the front door to be let in. They are my current Hell. Brexit and Covid are my external Hell. I won't let them in to my space, but they are lurking outside.
I'm happy to watch my Netflix documentaries or the occasional mini series, not withstanding my increasing lack of attention, or my audio issues. Drink my wine. Eat pasta. Observe my Monstera deliciosa, or my attempt to grow avocado from a jam jar.
I might light my scented candle, peer out at the blue Shard top, watch the masked folk pass below in the street. I've stopped clapping the NHS every Thursday. It seems artificial now. I'm obviously grateful for what they do, given my history, but I resent the fact that those deplorables at Number Ten join in with their fake virtual signalling whilst over 50,000 people have died through the choices made by the Tufton Street cabal.
I'm quite happy. I've been paid. I can sit her in my own company for the next year or so. Who cares if I am not able to leave the building. We all know that will be the lot of "the vulnerables". And soon, the elite will be those who hold the immunity card in their back pocket. But that is fine, I can live with that. I can observe from afar, without having to mingle in the madness that is current affairs.
This is the edge of my world. It indeed is an affair to remember. We will all remember. But some won't really care, so long as they can parade in their exceptional Britishness and crow about how wonderful the UK really is.
This is my Hell.
