My cynicism forbids me from agreeing with that sentiment. This is home, yes, but it is also a prison of sorts. I pace, for the fifteenth time that morning, from the hallway to the kitchen, then back again.
Just one flimsy piece of wood, I find myself thinking. Just one flimsy piece of wood that bars me from the outside world. I find myself reaching for the doorknob-and then I stop myself.
Most people like to say that their lives are hectic, as they struggle to balance work, family, friends, and maybe even education. There seems to be no time in the day to stop, reflect, or even catch one's breath. It is almost like we are consumed in, drowned in our duties, responsibilities, and moral obligations as citizens and people. Life is frantic and it never stops. It's a defiant attitude that is reflected in our cities: although we may have to sleep at least eight hours a day, the city itself never does.
Yet, the virus has put a pause on our cities, and a pause on our lives.
Barren streets. Where there was once laughter and easy-going conversation, there is now an anxious, ever-present buzz of tension and doom that hangs in the air. The sun shines down on empty roads and highways. The restaurants, the bars, the theme parks, the shops, and the malls-still standing, but desolate. They are mere skeletons of themselves. The crowds of people usually within them have disappeared. It's a chilling, almost post-apocalyptic sight. The world is full of people, but the people have disappeared.
It is another sunny day in the United States of America.