Awoke at five minutes to seven, bladder screaming. I shouldn't drink so much water at night - all day, really - but I can't help it. I don't mind it so much anyway, the getting up every night. It gives me a chance to fall asleep again.
Which I did, and dreamed, the sort of dreams I can remember because it's so close to waking. I dreamed of a large house in a desert and night and family, and small things that were off. And strangers who invaded and claimed to be relations. (No, absolutely no idea where my subconscious came up with *that* one...) And I had a son, a young boy, who clung to my hand and wrapped his arms around my neck when I held him and oh, god, god, I wanted to cry when I woke up. I want to cry now.
But I won't.
The rest of the world still seems fixed on the events of the day before last, and I taste guilt for moving on. I had a lovely day yesterday - calm inside my world, and happy - and felt like I shouldn't have. I would always think, on occasion, how very different my life would be had I been born somewhere else. I acknowledge the tragedy but cynicism still seeps in. Tuesday is somebody's life every day. Fear is somebody's companion every hour. That the target was this country does not make it somehow more "valid", more evil, more wrong, and the hypocrisy plagues me. This is the world that exists. We are not immune. Our lives are not worth more because it says "American" on the line for nationality. And what could retaliation yield but more pain?
I want to take my child and move to the desert and bury my head in the sand. Reality wearies me and escapism's all I'm good for.
Which I did, and dreamed, the sort of dreams I can remember because it's so close to waking. I dreamed of a large house in a desert and night and family, and small things that were off. And strangers who invaded and claimed to be relations. (No, absolutely no idea where my subconscious came up with *that* one...) And I had a son, a young boy, who clung to my hand and wrapped his arms around my neck when I held him and oh, god, god, I wanted to cry when I woke up. I want to cry now.
But I won't.
The rest of the world still seems fixed on the events of the day before last, and I taste guilt for moving on. I had a lovely day yesterday - calm inside my world, and happy - and felt like I shouldn't have. I would always think, on occasion, how very different my life would be had I been born somewhere else. I acknowledge the tragedy but cynicism still seeps in. Tuesday is somebody's life every day. Fear is somebody's companion every hour. That the target was this country does not make it somehow more "valid", more evil, more wrong, and the hypocrisy plagues me. This is the world that exists. We are not immune. Our lives are not worth more because it says "American" on the line for nationality. And what could retaliation yield but more pain?
I want to take my child and move to the desert and bury my head in the sand. Reality wearies me and escapism's all I'm good for.
Current Music: the hummity hum of the computer
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