'Tis a lot like walking on the floor of a lake I'd say. Y'got your mask on, you can breath, you can see -- in fact, with a labored glance to the surface you can see the sun, and the cloudless blue sky -- but it's all filtered through the brownish, particle-filled haze of the water so there's just no seeing it like everyone else. Sure, they say it's a beautiful day, certain you must know what this means, and you scan your memory for what a beautiful day looks and feels like but the feeling, the sights, the smells... They're all gone - the line of cognition severed.
Lead boots hold fast your feet... Slow and tiring this walking on the lake floor but there's no other way; no other choice but to get to the other side only to turn around and do it again, and again, and again. Because they need you to. They all need you to. They all need you to keep moving. Even the ones that shouldn't matter need you to keep moving.
Tired. Hurts to breath. Curse this stale air! Would that this damnable tank just empty and fill me no more.
Willem -- only days before he was stricken with HLH -- leisurely walking, straw in mouth, not a care in the world. A healthy 9 year old boy.
