March 20, 2003 - 6:42 p.m.
It's a mad, mad world...
I don't like being angry.
Why couldn't it have been like my fantasies? All cuddles n snuggles n rubbing n stretching n warm fuzzies n soft skin n hard in n lips n tongues n tell me all about it n smiles n laughs n my heart bubbling up in my chest.
Instead of my heart feeling like it was in that blender...
Especially now. Now, as I sit in my car in traffic. Sit on my floor at home. Thinking about the darkness on the other side of the world...
The darkness broken only by the orange glow of oil burning, and the bright flashes of exploding buildings. Children crying - they can't even hear themselves - the concussion of bombs pounding in their heads and sirens panicking near and far - so their shrieks become more hysterical. Helpless - they can't even hear their own screams - voiceless, they are terrified. And they can't hear the sound of their mothers' voices either - the sound meant to soothe, to protect. But they can't protect. Not against the sound, not against the fires, not against the bombs, not against the nightmares that could only end when their lives do.
But they were told by so many: this is from the west, this evil, this destruction. Remember this. Let yourself be angry instead of hurt. Remember this and avenge this...
And they will... And the nightmare will become all too real for someone else, maybe me, maybe everyone.
So why couldn't I just have my little fantasy? Well, hell, it probably would have made me feel guilty...
