Covidic Censorship

In this context, I speak of self-censorship. My self-censoring is far more harsh and enforced than political censors are capable of. By my childhood conditioning, they are faster and more absolute than a criminal perpetrator's backhand. Often I believe self-censorship is the very root of my speech and hearing handicaps. If ya can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all. To a literal-minded child prostitute, mutism is the logical tactic. A perpetrator's backhand seldom uses words. The tones and motions behind the words are the far more critical human language to study. More than half a century later, I still pay far more attention to tones than words in all of my languages. Your tones don't sound too fine, my friend.

My Covidic Paranoia remains too intense to allow me to return to free and easy journaling here. Fears of the still(?) escalating maskite mandates runs heavy interference when I attempt to journal the more personal developments and anxieties. The possibility of another covidic escalation isnae the center of our daily operations, but it weighs heavily in the decisions on how to manage the daily operations onboard this little ship of fools.

Next week begins my volunteer work at the elementary school. I will be a "Kindergarten Lunch Monitor." Big Sis's lunch. She is so excited she can barely stand the wait. I'm not quite sure how many tones from my covidically reinforced social anxiety are ringing in our banter about when she will see me at lunch.

Sorting. . . Again I leave the mood icon on the rapid cycling median. . .

Breathing. . .