Bitter, bitter mouth, spitting out seeds of doubt

I swore to myself that I had hardened my heart against a lifetime of caring, hopefully, about the results of elections, and yet I opened Instagram, of all places, this morning to a wave of anxiety that's ensconced itself behind my ribs and refused to leave. I resent that I resemble this Guardian opinion piece by a fellow Australian.

I had made plans for tomorrow — more preemptive heart-hardening — to avoid the internet entirely, not just the blue hellsite that is Twitter. I was going to buy the next Benjamin January book and just wallow in a cone of silence until the internet had screamed itself out, whatever the result (or, more likely, whatever state of inconclusiveness things are in 24 hours after polls close). I spent so much time preparing for the aftermath that I forgot to prepare for this dreadful sense of unease that now creeps up on me on any kind of election day, in multiple countries, like a bucket of icy water. (That's my secret. I'm always anxious.)

Thankfully, I've got a rather tedious task ahead for most of today at work: running searches for a systematic review, which at least involves repetive, focused activities that should last several hours. I'll stick on a Tiësto live set and hope that the noise drowns out the noisy clutter in my own head. It should work as something of a bandaid solution, at least for a little while.

I'm sending hope to all of you, across oceans.