It's hard to put into words my thoughts on this 8th anniversary of the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. Below is an excerpt from a journal entry from Sept. 24, 2001. (Disclaimer: It's raw, somewhat incoherent rant, so bear with its imperfections).
Is it possible to do justice to everyone's grief? Those who lost loved ones. The rescuers. The people who survived? I feel my own pain, but I always believe it is less important than the grief of those who suffered far more than I did. I feel inadequate. Helpless.
I cried for those who were lost like they were my own.
And they were.
As human beings, we spend our entire lives trying to separate ourselves from each other. It takes something like Sept. 11 to remind us that, whether we like it or not, we are brothers and sisters.
I hear lots of talk about encouraging world leaders to work together.
NO SHIT, YA MORONS! We have no choice. We have only one planet! We destroy it and each other and we're fucked. Fucked.
Back to the grief...and the guilt. Others are grieving. I am too, but it's infinitely easier for me to carry on. I've thought of little else since but it doesn't consume me as much. My heart weeps for those who don't have it so easy, and I feel guilty. True, it's a selfish emotion, but also an inexorable one.
So much has happened to the country - and to me - since then. In many ways, 2001 feels a lifetime ago. I moved out of New York two years ago. I'm in another big city. In some ways we've learned a lot and in other ways, we've either learned the wrong lesson or nothing at all.
Yet, even now, with so much time passed, if I close my eyes, I can easily be transported back to that day. I remember what I was wearing. What I ate for breakfast. The weather. That day - and the lives lost on it - will never leave me.