futility ~IV

Earlier on Friday.

36 hours and counting.
I can’t help but think of the forces. The commandos, the special units. The constables with lathis. Aching limbs, dulled or conversely heightened senses. Adrenalin. Fear. Bleary eyes.
It seems like we are in a movie. [ There, even using the ‘we’ feels odd. Do I have that right, sitting here in this sanitized environment watching my streaming news off the net ? ] But yes, it feels like a movie. Not a blockbuster that runs on adrenalin and eventually feels justified, brave, glorious. No, this is a dirty, gritty, unsettling, disturbing film.

I tell her, tell myself, to stop watching it all non-stop. To pause, let my mind breathe; cling on to normalcy, because watching and listening starts to get into your head. Under your skin. The sickness creeps up, you feel ill.
Then I say why the heck. The least I can do is go through the disgust that following this story brings with it. I can't begin to imagine what people have gone through, and here I am bothered about feeling mildly ill.