To Everyone Now Waiting (first letter)

Hi Everybody.
I’m finally able to write after a week of lockdown.  We’ve all been dead to the world really.  The time with my wife and sons has been priceless so far, even with the close quarters and uncertainty.  I’ve also had some wonderful stolen moments reading, nursing cold beer, soaking in the bath, playing guitar and making up melodies.  These modest luxuries seem so grand now.  Who knows what any of us are thinking and feeling at the moment?  The people in our building tell me we’ll never be the same after this pandemic wraps up.  To me the deadliest threat in all of this remains the predatory opportunism of concentrated wealth.  If people were the priority, nothing would be happening this way.  This should never be the same again.  My neighbors and I talk around it at a distance, from balcony to balcony, door to door, text to text, like sentries holding a line while terrified of an imminent, unspoken assault.
Why return to the way things used to be?  So much has been revealed to be meaningless, bogus, unecessary, etc.  As I try to write, too many disparate (but equally irksome) incidents come to mind.  I don’t know where or how to begin. We’ve been travelling to a point of exhaustion standing still.  Everything collapses when purpose is pulled apart, when old goals and expectations turn out to be cons.
One suddenly sees and hears the emptiness of things.  That’s the visceral clarity of crisis at work.  Our days and nights are haunted by the undetectable sweep of contagion. New life will emerge from this pregnant pause, but for now I imagine my eyes are bloated and blurring, that my skin is covered in sweat, that I am nauseous and trembling, that I am barely breathing through the mucus clinging to the inner walls of my lungs. I gasp and choke, as if going under for good.  The difficult thing after these moments is to continue waiting.  No.  It’s to be separated from the living world as it regenerates — to know it is healing because we are incarcerated.  All of this and more I can’t explain satisfactorily — so I won’t.  I should be playing with my boys to help them relax a bit.   Let me just say for now that you shouldn’t complain about this being too short, long or gratuitous a note. It’s merely a not sent letter after all, one that has momentarily provided me with an easing sense of critical distance (no matter how illusory).
I hope grace will find us.
jeremy