If we could dream for a while to enthrone this covid-ball-of-fire. If we could colour it in pink, in green, in light blue perhaps, like a soft and chubby woolen ball, puffy and mushy, the corona hardly balancing on its clumsy head.
The modified coronavirus jumps up and down amidst daisies fields, does summersaults on gently sloping hills, unable to keep the dear corona on its clumsy head. It falls, it rushes, it tumbles down, it’s up again. So much turmoil for just a crown. Exasperated, the virus gives up the crown. And it becomes an armless virus that, sick and tired by all the media attention in every possible language all over the planet, takes a jump into the morning breeze, flies back into the forest up the mountains, to the alpine meadows where it decides to resume living in the body of a stranded bat lost in flight. “Here my lovely host, let’s fly together to the land of nowhere, so much publicity has destroyed me.” And very far they go, and forever more they disappear.
Then we will say: “I got the cou (or, better, the clou), but now I am fine.” “She was really sick with the coucou, covid, divoc, whatever, but now she has recovered and is stronger than ever.”
At the moment though, before the fairytale comes true, we read on the papers interviews to ‘Covid survivor’. And I wonder why Covid survivor, and even with a capital letter. We don’t say pneumonia survivor, or stroke survisor.
There is no gain into spreading terror when what we need instead is strength and positive attitude. We must keep faith that our humanity, our perseverance and resilience will bring us out of this difficult time.