What world will come out of all this? For the moment, it seems clear that the crisis will bring out the best and the worst in everyone, and paranoia, intemperance and madness cannot be ruled out.
Looking at life through the window
We enter the pandemic diaries of the photographer Wayra Ficapal and the writer Joan Safont, as a high-risk person

BarcelonaThis is the story of our particular lockdown.
The chances of developing dangerous symptoms of covid-19 can increase in people who have serious health pathologies. My partner, the writer Joan Safont (37), is what has been called an at-risk population. Joan has cystic fibrosis - a genetic disease that especially affects the lung and pancreatic system - and was given a lung transplant in 1998. Due to the side effects of the immunosuppressant medication he has been taking daily since then, in 2008 he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, a cancer he overcame in 2011 after a relapse. Because of all this, our lockdown began days before the first state of alarm was declared in the Spanish state and the consequent mandatory home lockdown, on 14 March, 2020. For months Joan locked himself in our flat and only came out to attend a couple of medical visits that could not be postponed.
This photo essay is a diary of our lockdown, a testimony of the nest we have created during this first year of the pandemic in our rented apartment in Barcelona and in a relative's house in La Seu d'Urgell. Intertwining my photographs with fragments of Joan's personal diary, we can see how we have taken care of ourselves, but also the anxiety of feeling trapped at home mixed with the anguish of getting sick, of dying. A fear that has accompanied us in our daily lives. In this context of global pandemic, we live waiting, patient, watching how, despite everything, life opens up.
Wayra is very worried about me. She suffers for what might happen to me, aware that I am a high-risk individual. I keep my spirits up and try not to overthink things, even though I am aware that it would be very difficult for me to overcome a hypothetical contagion.
Hands dry from so much washing. The character more grumpy than usual for not being able to go out. The characters, the obsessions, the tares, the routines and the evils become extreme. I lose all sense of time and space. I don't know the time or the day I live in. At nine in the morning, only the birds break the monotony of the silence of a street that at that hour spoke different languages and had been in morning traffic for hours.
A new week of lockdown begins and it gets more and more complicated. Wayra has gone out to the street to shop and, like every time she goes there and back, she arrives worried that she might have brought the damn virus home. Keeping calm at a time when there are no certainties or assurances is very complicated and can make us fall into the temptation of excessive caution.
Again, rain, rain and more rain. I could fill this notebook with this rain that swallows us.
Yesterday I broke a branch of one of the geraniums I was caring for with such devotion and delicacy. It felt as bad as if someone dear to me had been hurt. I have a feeling of total rage and helplessness, and I have planted the broken branches in the hope that life will sprout from the wound.
In each window you can sense one or another story, one or another suffering, a thousand and one ways of living this lockdown.
I'm getting sleepier and less and less eager to get up, even though Gaziel, as always, does everything he can to get me to put one foot on the ground.
I go into the room and watch Wayra and Gaziel sleep. Calm, peaceful, tranquil; all the words I could use fall short. They sleep in an old bed that belonged to my great-great-grandparents, with white linens and placidity concentrated in symmetrical gestures. I love them and would like to protect their sleep.
I fantasise about other diary writers writing down their impressions under today's date.
At nine o'clock in the morning we are already at the hospital ready for the vaccination. Wayra accompanies me at an important moment that is immediately spoiled by an overworked staff. They make us wait for more than an hour and finally they inoculate me with the Pfizer vaccine. I'm happy for the fact that I'm starting to leave behind the terror of getting infected and going through an experience that in my case can be fatal, but I'm not exaggerating either. I am happy and grateful to the health services that make it possible in spite of everything.