Turning Seasons

'Cottage and Mountains' by Shibata Zeshin, 19th century

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I don’t know exactly how many days it’s been.

I stopped recording them.

My guess is more than three hundred.

I’ve counted at least three seasons, based on the weather out there.

Darkness has been the most consistent reminder that what were once normal days have passed. Night-time arrives like an echo of something vaguely familiar — but which now feels less like an invitation to rest and more like an intrusion.

An inconvenience.

I lie down nevertheless, like I’m supposed to, and close my eyes.

Sometimes I drift off easily.

Other times, I can feel it.

Lying there next to me.

When I open my eyes again, it’s gone, and an alarm signals that it’s time to move around again.

To act as normal as possible.

I learned the rules quickly:

1. No phone calls or texts

2. Permission to see one person a week for no more than an hour

3. Eat between the hours of 6–9pm

   (Whatever is left)

4. Exercise once a day for an hour

5. Permission to drive aimlessly and walk if it's remote

6. No talking to strangers

   (Look only at the ground)

7. Permission to lie down, but only sleep when I'm allowed

8. No television or radio

9. I can read books that arrive in the post

10. It will never leave

    
    

I try to outrun it.

Sometimes I think I’ve lost it.

But my body gives out before it does.

It never gets tired.

When I stop, gasping for breath, sweat pouring down my cheeks,

it’s already there,

waiting.

When I get back, I bolt the door shut behind me — one, two, three, four, five —

locking us inside.

And wait.