We all agreed in 2020 that time (like a lot of aspects of American living) had lost all meaning, and I'm not sure if most people have moved on from that, but I am still extremely unmoored. My life has more routine and stability than it did last year and I'm grateful for that, but 2021 has been a drawn out realization that the things I hoped would re-acquaint me with a feeling of normalcy did not do that. Endings and beginnings and growth and grief are messier than I imagined, and I have a wild fucking imagination. So when I think about the span of time that got me from January- the meandering tenth month of what would ultimately be a thirteen month lockdown where going downstairs to do laundry and taking the trash out were panic-inducing endeavors- to December, where my concerns revolve around managing CPTSD from childhood trauma in a brutal and chaotic world that is constantly escalating, it feels like a chain of islands you might visit in a leaky boat. You can't make the...