Shock, astonishment, grief. The destruction of The Twin Towers.

528 words
A Circle of Love

Today my fingers are heavy on the keys. An anchor of grief causes my shoulders to slump. I have heard the words ghastly, cowardly, innocent victims, death, murder, destruction, evil, all words that have a new meaning, and now I stumble over. Fire brightens the television screen, smoke billows above skyscrapers, and screams penetrate an atmosphere saturated in panic. The World Trade Center is gone, the Pentagon crushed, and heroism is found in a hole in the ground.
Guilt urges me to write because I remain safe, as does my family, friends, and loved ones. My air is clean and bright with sunshine. My children laugh in their innocence. Their world seems secure. But I know better.
Anger pricks me like a barbarian does his voodoo doll, and I want to lash out my rage, curse, and confess uncertainties. I am lost in fury and the only hope to stay sane is to write, write, and write some more.
I cannot stay seated, and yet I can no longer pace, so these words spurt onto paper like a slow leak. Writing soothes me and allows emotions to burst to life, if only for a second. Hate is real. I know that now. As real as wide-eyed faces staring in disbelief at twisted, burning iron. As real as crumbling concrete that buried innocent victims. As real as the ink that darkens this paper.
I write to deal with this loathing that has taken up residence in my soul. Hate destroys. Logically, I know that. Yet it flows through my veins as if on a joyous ride. Do you really want me to be truthful? Hate feels right at this moment. That is this writer’s truth.
As an author, I search for plots and exciting stories, heroes and villains in newspapers and on television. My purpose is now a burning lump in my throat. My aspirations suffocate beneath doubt and suspicion.
Still, I am drawn to these keys to say, “I’m sorry for your lost loved ones, sorry for your pain. I am here to do whatever I can. My prayers are with you.” I peck out these disparaging emotions, and hopefully, it will help me find my way back to forgiveness. I have no desire to hate, or to hurt, or to destroy. But I do want justice.
My world consists of exaggerated fiction, humor, and scrupulous characters that succeed in the worst circumstances. Reality has trampled that concept, and devastated even my fictional idealism.
But as I watch in amazement at hundreds of Americans digging through rubble to aid a stranger, and give thousands of dollars to help subsidize mounting debts, the fierce thumping calms in my heart. My fingers become agile, hopeful, and once again speed over my keyboard. My hope is to offer something that will make a difference to you, to all of us Americans, as well as those in other countries who suffer the rage from terrorism.
I write to offer my heart, compassion, thoughts, and prayers. It's not enough, I know, but joining hands with another, and another, and another, our prayers will encompass the world and you with love.