My hometown is under attack. On what was going to be the best week of my life – because, hello, I was turning 27 – hostile elements swarmed in my City and basically, fucked everything.

It’s been a surreal week – I can’t believe it’s already been a week of curfews and gunfire. Dealing with violence that hits so close to home and at so grand a scale drains you, physically and emotionally. I am still functioning, but not really. I go to work but I do my responsibilities on a table that is not mine because it’s too dangerous to go to City Hall. Instead of being independent, I now need someone to take me home each and every night because we have a curfew.

I still watch television, but I tune in mostly to news. I no longer watch comedies because at this time and in this context, it seems obscene to laugh and be merry. I eat, but I can no longer savor food. How could I, when I know that somebody else deserves this roasted chicken more than me? Fuck you for not caring. Fuck me for not caring.

I am still processing everything that has happened. I will probably write something about this experience because I will need the therapy and the catharsis of bleeding out words. But that’s for another time. Right now, I need to do something else, something that does not involve thinking.

And feeling.

Or both.

Tomorrow is another day. But maybe it’s going to be THE day. Fingers are crossed.


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