The Storm

Before the storm, I blindly drifted down many different paths, trying to escape my loneliness, inadequacy, and despair.
Before the storm, my seclusion, sorrow, and frustration were misunderstood as unapproachability, self-pity, and anger.
Before the storm, each morning I woke exhausted, empty, and astray, contemplating the purpose of my existence. 
Before the storm, I pleaded with God every single night to bring others into my life who were forced to feel like me.
 
But then this uninvited phenomenon we could have never expected began to appear, forcibly uprooting all our lives.
 
In an instant, I no longer felt banished, destined to dwell in captivity with a small few who genuinely understood.
With anxiety and worry universally accelerated, it felt like the playing field had decisively evened.
In a flash, I was surrounded by a whole new network of people whose vigor for life had been indefinitely zapped.
I began to sleep with a solace never known, realizing that others might finally be feeling what I endure every day.
 
Somber eyes of friends and family suggested their gloom was thick and heavy, that their anguish was about to rage.
Bleak scowls replaced formerly radiant smiles; desperate expressions suggested that these days would not be fleeting.
Others were now also forced to camouflage their fear and doubt publicly only to crumble behind closed doors.  
For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was no longer walking in the company of strangers.   
 
When news broadcasts documented our collective distress, I gained an extensive community that could relate.
The widespread corral allowed me to feel connected, whereas before, I had felt so detached from the joys of the world.
When public persona suggested the picture-perfect lives of others were anything but, I gathered a sense that I belonged.
For once, it felt like the world was experiencing the unease, hopelessness, and confusion I live with each day.
 
But when the fog lifts and the coast clears, I do hope that you’ll realize you can’t just steer depressive thoughts away.
And when you return to your former self, I do hope that you’ll have a deeper understanding of our daily battles.
And when your prior life restores, I do hope that you’ll be more aware of those of us haunted by our thoughts.
And when you reunite with those you adore, I do hope that you’ll think of those of us who feel undeserving of love.
 
But then this uninvited phenomenon we could have never expected began to dissipate, reluctantly releasing its tight grip.
 
After the storm, will others be more likely in their attempts to understand me and my habitual struggles?
After the storm, will friends once again prosper and rejoice in their reacquired freedom while I again get left behind?
After the storm, will humanity be more open-minded, sensitive, and forgiving towards others facing invisible challenges?
After the storm, will I plead to see those same cloaked faces whose panic and dread provided unintentional comfort?

The only piece I wrote about COVID during the entire year of 2020.

Written in 2020

Copyright, The Poetry of Bryan Buser