Son of a bitch. It’s only been two days of quarantine. The native is quelled, but my thought process is a little hazy. I managed to drag him outside for half an hour, before he escaped back into the house.
We’ve created so much art. Colors grace paper after paper after paper in pen, crayon, paint, and markers. Any activity book must be read as the creature can only read about a dozen words. Trying to get him to understand a sentence with only knowledge of a, the, can, he, and and isn’t sufficient.
He’s inundated me with flashing lights and pictures that rotate over and over with repeating stories. The constant “now watch this and don’t stop watching” request is new, leaving me with less time in my own head. It’s only saving grace is that these pictures and stories have educational value.
The animals are indifferent verging on annoyed by our constant presence, except the female who vies for attention. Hours pass with the native and female feline pushing each other out of my lap. Please stop touching me.
I head to the land of employment tomorrow. My time and research at this homestead doesn’t pay and the creature expects food and clothes, something of my own doing. The expectations I’ve given him have backfired in my face.
I will leave him with my companion. My companion’s time and research in the homestead rival my own, only he’s expected to labor in here for the company that provides currency. The native may not appreciate the lack of devotion and retaliate.
They say this will end in a fortnight. I lack the faith of that assurance. My companion and I will prepare and await the news from our leaders. We can hold this pattern for an unforeseeable future, but can the others?
