With Chapman University’s gung-ho return to in-person instruction, the doldrums of quarantine have finally begun to dissipate. Those in power have made it abundantly clear that they have no intentions of reinstating the stay-at-home orders of 2020. The national desire to return to the way things once were became too much to bear.

So, despite the ongoing global health crisis, life would resume as usual. 

Even as the world is set back in motion, I find myself unable to shake the sense of stillness that the last year and a half has left me with. 

Amid the stifling dullness of the first few months in lockdown, I came to be acutely aware of the passage of time. Images of my college years slipping away lingered in my mind throughout quarantine, occasionally snapping me out of my “Animal Crossing”-induced stupor with a sharp pang of regret. 

Days would become weeks, and weeks would become months. That summer, the tedium of routine was quick to set in. Before I knew it, my experiences were melting into each other, leaving behind vague, featureless memories that consisted of little more than scattered collections of thought and emotion. 

It is incredibly difficult to assign any chronological order to these echoes of quarantine; rather than existing as a linear string of experiences, they are instead disjointed, weaved together with loose connections rather than stringent timelines. 

Thanks to an introductory metaphysics course I had taken in the spring, my fixation with the transient nature of time had significantly worsened. The gaps in my memory, accompanied by a wistful longing for what could have been, soon mutated into grim reminders of the swaths of time that I had lost. 

I could not comprehend how time could pass so slowly but simultaneously be so fleeting. The present moment felt eternal. Yet, for all of its many details, I could retain nothing from it. My life had become defined by the crushing impermanence of immediacy. A schism had developed between my day-to-day experiences and my long-term perception of those experiences — a schism that I have been unable to mend. 

Perhaps this cognitive dissonance will appear less jarring as I age, its edges softened by maturity, philosophy or spiritual awakening. Perhaps it will intensify, consuming my every thought as I watch my mortal coil unravel. Whatever conclusion I reach, I only hope it offers some respite from the sense of unease I continue to carry with me. 

Regardless of how resolute I feel in my refusal to allow another semester to drift away, I have grown accustomed to monotony. As the novelty of returning to campus fades into normalcy, I can feel its grip tightening once again. Let’s hope this year is different.