Such bleakness when I first wake. And then I talk of it to him at breakfast and my self-pity sets in. He looks so concerned and I hate myself for doing that to him. And yet, articulating it does help a little. What is best? And then I snatch a glance at the first few tweets on Twitter and my self-concern dissipates giving way to those with stronger needs. And there are so many. I try to send comfort. To be of use. To feel better about myself, this grey thing that I carry around. The sun shines and the sky is a blue behind the clouds. We just have to keep going. There is nothing else for it. The big sleep awaits us regardless. I ask for grace, for strength for kindness. For the ability to be kind whatever the adversity. Will it be given?

The bread shelves were empty in the supermarket. Such fear. Such panic. I must have compassion for that even if I cannot condone the result. Let us be kind. Blood on their hands, she said over the radio. The stockpilers will have blood on their hands. Give us strength, we know not what we do.

Meanwhile, I have this life to live, these people to tend and nurture. It is enough. Forgive my complaining. My bleakness is mine. I shall know it, care for it. Tend it. Until it passes. Until it passes.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.