Angst

I feel like all my sparkle was sandblasted away a long time ago.

I like that phrase. I don’t very often come up with words that work well, but I think this does, and is quite descriptive of how I feel. I like the use of the term “sandblasted” as it was in a dry, dusty, semi-desert landscape where much of the damage occured. In the no-mans lands of Palestine, where heavily armoured, high-tech soldiers pounded away at civilians.

That pain of seeing what people are capable of doing to each other is now a part of the black stuff inside me. A scab that I can’t resist picking, even though I know it makes it worse.

In the blackness also swirls the murder of two of my friends, with the resulting, unasked for empathy with the millions of other people who have seen people murdered in front of them.

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