Heartbreak.

BBC Ukraine invasion coverage

The heartbreak is heavy. It’s an anchor, weighing me down, weighing my finger down when I’m about to click ‘play’ on the livestream. It’s so heavy that in the last 18 hours I can’t bring myself to refresh anymore.

The first week, I absorbed the news every spare chance I had. At my desk while working, in my kitchen while cooking, on my commute, and I suppose it was all still a state of shock.

The second week… I feel like I’m drowning, the heartbreak so heavy in my chest. It’s blocking me from doing, being, feeling anything other than a complex mix of pain, shame and despair.

How are we so incredibly worthless? Bundles of DNA, brains smart enough to build cities and civilizations and stupid enough to think that was the be-all. That building is what we’re here to do.

Just bundles of DNA that are so easy to kill. One minute, making speeches from a bunker, the next – it really only takes one bullet.

pain

These parents, these men staying behind, these adults not sure which step to take to make sure their kids survive. Water fasting so their toddler has an extra tomato to eat another day. Clutching a toy truck their kid gave them as he waved goodbye from the train heading west. Today Ukrainians, tomorrow…?

shame

I understand the facts. But the morality is overwhelming. How can we sit here and do nothing? How can we trigger WWIII faster than necessary? Howa can we leave ourselves unprotected for the inevitable? But the shame of it – the shame that never again meant nothing. Nothing. Even by the people who swore to never forget.

despair

What comes next? It’s impossible to make any moves. To make plans. To bear additional weight of believing there’s a specific future. All we can be sure of is, no one will come help us when it’s our time to defend. We are alone. So how can we even consider the future when everything today is so bleak.

One minute, I’m behind the wheel on the highway. Then suddenly I’m at my desk, fingers on keyboard. And then somehow I’m in my kitchen, cleaning up for the night, while British anchors continue to be at a loss for words. There are barely moments anymore. There is dust, tons of it, slipping through my fingers.

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