The title of the post paraphrases a well-known book written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and it speaks about restrictions and longing.

The truth is that I could have simply written a diary post about every single day that I've spent "at home". But it is quite difficult to encompass the multitude of feelings and sensations that overwhelmed me and the whole world.

As I believe I am mentally strong I have started the two weeks of lockdown with big plans: I will reorganize all my closest and I will read and I will do all the things I always wanted to do but I never had time for. And I did it: my clothes are lined up like obedient soldiers following the Chromatic and thickness rules. Now it's been seven weeks!
Everything seems to have found a sort of breathe-in state, neither desolate/barren, nor calm. There is a void that hangs over my head like a distorted bubble.

I tried to keep everyone happy and active being more preoccupied about their well-being and mental health than mine. For a while, it worked. Teaching online, following a minimal routine, talking to the loved ones.

But I have to be honest and admit that it scares me too, that it gives me pangs of incertitude and self-doubt, that it brings to the surface things I put away not wanting to deal with for a while. I've read that it is normal, because how else can you feel when you are "entrapped" in your house, when your flight ticket is cancelled and when you don't know when you'll be able to see again the man you love. He lives across the border that is closed now.

oh, I read three books or so. I am completing a puzzle, I am keeping myself busy. Except for those days when I cannot move and I feel internally paralysed. I just need to hear on repeat: I love you. we will be fine. You will be fine.

It has taken its toll.

But I am being brave for facing it each day. Each day. And for battling my inner demons.

I know, in the end, I will be victorious. I always am. I believe that love has healing power: like the light of a firefly during the darkest night.