This year has been tumultuous so far. Combine equal parts cabin fever, poor mental health, and escapism, and you get a person who has difficulties putting words into a creative composition. Instead of posting a success story later about how I have overcome my obstacles in life, I felt it was equally important to document my lower moments as well. This post would be a feeble attempt to keep this website alive.
Kudos to Proxmox and their team for the latest release of Proxmox VE. The upgrade process was smooth and well documented. The inclusion of the upgrade checks was amazing to say the least.
No longer a support engineer, I now have a regular work and sleep routine. This routine frees me from the debilitating schedule that once held me prisoner from social activities or engaging in self-improvement. Ironically, this has only enabled my escapism habits.
I spent several months grinding away Witcher 3 and its DLCs. It's an amazing RPG for a game of its time. Between killing monsters for coin and saving Ciri, there were plenty of side quests to keep the player going. The only downside was how the devs decided to handle the post-game content. What a shame. I also dropped a few weeks into Rimworld and its expansive world of war crimes and extensive modding. I ultimately stopped playing because of the soul-crushing loss of a moderately successful colony. It was fun making money by harvesting organs from prisoners and skinning their bodies for leather. Mood debuffs begone.
During these days of gaming, I lost track of my work on myself. The game sessions were fun, but not nourishing. Like tending liquor to a wounded soul, this escapism does not heal, it only numbs it for another day. I find nothing but more guilt at the bottom of the metaphorical bottle.
As the Covid situation worsens in Malaysia, hope is bleak and no end is in sight. Cases in our nation rise to record highs but its people are furious. Furious to be held prisoner in their own homes but not furious enough to discipline themselves for a safer future. Citizens have never been more divided ; An increasing number of the lesser minded are pushing for the release of the lockdowns; The infected be damned, my momentary freedom worth their sacrifice, until the time comes for my lungs to be on the chopping block. As much as I'm privileged to be safe from the horrors of the pandemic, cabin fever is catching up to me. I feel myself losing grip of my identity and my flow of time. My moods grew from restlessness to agitation, then to apathy. I can only hope for the better.
I shall stop here. Thanks for reading so far. For you dear reader, stay strong and stay safe. Like the euphoric sight of your first double rainbow or the arduous toils of your younger days, times like these, too, shall pass.
The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing the fruit- and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains. And the smell of rot fills the country. Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth. There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificate- died of malnutrition- because the food must rot, must be forced to rot. The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quick-lime, watch the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.
- John Steinbeck