I veer between waking at 3am in terror to raging at people who have paved over their gardens. But none of us are entirely powerless
Being alive has felt like a strange business in recent years (though vastly better than the alternative, of course). I do my frivolous job, try to get my five a day, and fret about money, who is more successful than me and whether I should find out what retinol is. But all that mental busywork is shaded by the silhouette of some giant predator, maw open, claws raised, ready to pounce. In my head it’s like a cartoon image, but not funny.
In a cartoon, I’d be oblivious, but I’m not; quite the opposite. I know we’re living in the shadow of climate collapse, and I know, too, how lucky I am to be insulated from the worst of what is already happening worldwide. But my ordinary joys and worries have started feeling ridiculous since things are so bad. “Things are bad.” “The world is on fire … ” That’s how I tend to talk about it on the rare occasions that I do – euphemistically or with jokey hyperbole, to conceal the real constant hum of dread.
