I don’t even know what I came here to say.

My heart hurts.

I struggle with writing.

I mean, anyone who actually writes, I think, struggles with writing, at least sometimes.

But…I struggle with feeling like I have anything to say, even though I have so fucking much to say. There are just so many voices, you know? And so many of them are more eloquent, more informed, more devoted, more passionate than mine.

I’m ok with stepping aside, really. I mean, I’d love to, as I’ve said before, write the thing that changes the world or instigates a revolution or offers up some new fundamental philosophical theory. But as long as the truth is being spoken, I’m ok with wherever it might come from.

And so I stayed silent during the weeks of COVID. I felt all the things and had all the thoughts but…so did everyone else. The points were made, over and over (and over and…oh my god, I get it, this sucks…jesus…I really should’ve bought toilet paper last week…)

Now, though, my country is on fire. I can’t help but watch the videos of cops firing on protesters, firing on reporters, firing on people on their porches, firing on kids. What I’m seeing on streets that I know are things I used to see on TV when I was seven or nine or twelve, places with foreign sounding names: Sarajevo, Serbia, Rwanda. I remember staring with horror over my spaghetti, stomach turning at the sight of a small child in a blue jacket lying on the street in a pool of blood. I remember thinking…