Much previously, I posted this on WriteAs. It's been almost three years, and like many people in the world might say right now, things have changed.

I stopped cross-training (yeah, the functional training course evolved to adapt to our growing competence), reverting to regular exercise at home, about three times a week. As I said: I'm not a gym junkie, I exercise because from time to time I feel the need to disconnect. Obviously, in these times of business closures and social distancing, the whole aspect of reaching out that I wrote about in 2018 is impossible to satisfy. Still, this hasn't prevented me from obsessing over small things, which grew into big things, eventually becoming monstrous retrospections and ominous divinations. Last April, the mere, innocent act of participating in a goddamn Discord server was enough to send me down a spiral of self-commiseration and mood swings that lasted for months. Am I good enough? Do I have a chance, any chance? Why do I feel the need to establish meaningful relationships, if the act of doing it is so exhausting to me because I keep being all tight and serious-looking around people? When did I grow up like this, feeling miserable when I'm not forcing myself into not thinking about how am I doing, by working of filling my free time with amenities and entertainment? Am I shallow for doing so? Am I shallow for being tired of all this, for not caring about things with the same passion I had in my early twenties?

But most of all: am I stupid, or ungrateful, or even selfish, for asking myself how am I mentally doing?

I don't have an answer to all that; I don't know if I should actively look for an answer, actually. Maybe it's these times we're living that are altering my perspective.

Is it weird to say that despite all this generic anxiety, a few of the memories I enjoy the most are from the time I did amateur theatre? Maybe I should give it another go, when times are less... plague-y.

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