You're probly wondering what that smell is, that infected stench of puss and rot. It's time we laid our dreams to rest, released the clench and nodded off. They've been deader than a doornail since a pangolin had known a bat, or vice versa. Out of the frying pandemic and into the forest fire, amirite?
Carrying them around won't bring them back. Dragging—dropping dead—entrails along the trail may get you followers (if hand-holding zombies count), and it may get you rich (what's the fly-to-dollar exchange rate?) but it won't turn back time, and it won't bring your dead dreams back.
We're sorry for your loss. Please accept our deepest condolences. We know you had it all planned out. You were doing your best (based on that now-obsolete conception of the world) and now what?
When will we get THAT FUCKING VACCINE so things can go back to how it used to be!?
The answer I have is the one no one wants. We are never going back. Time moves forward. The story goes on. This too shall pass. Life evolves, we move, through struggles to grow love.
Did Rosie the Riveter expect things to go back to normal? Did she long for her apron and curlers? Maybe baseball needs more crying. The Rockford Peaches would have kept playing if only their husbands and sons had remained in the trenches.
Before we move on, before we can fly, we need to let go.
William Cliff the Guillemot stands on a cliff in the wind on an island. See Cliff teeter. Cliff is young, only a chick, or a gosling, an auklet, if you will. See Cliff awkwardly teeter on a seacliff. Cliff's mother Murriel skims the cliff. Mother Murre sings to Cliff, "Be free, Willy! Fly!" See Cliff teeter and topple and tumble and plummet ponderous and pillowy into the seaspray, into the breach.
If we are each to wear the crown, if we are all to reign sovereign, first we must surrender.
When we accept responsibility for being, we achieve liberation by abandoning freedom.
"What about free will? If we choose love, there are no more choices to make," said the bat to the pangolin.