You know who I am. We share these feelings, you and I. Many times we have awoken to the agonising sensation of the air being sucked from our lungs. We know the feeling of our stomachs contorting with pure, unadulterated grief. We’ve felt the vicious heat rise from that terrible place that we often call home and we’ve witnessed the bloody waterfalls tumbling recklessly behind our eyes for days, for weeks, for months on end. There are days when our skin hangs limp off our bodies like cheap tissue paper, and days when we’ve needed this not to be our truth. As strangers we have felt this together. We’ve shared a collective memory despite our flesh not ever having met. A memory with a common thread that doesn’t call our frail existence into question.
Too many fingers on too many hands are needed to count the number of times we have sunk, but just as many hands have returned to propel us back to the surface. Amongst all this chaos and terror, we have risen up time and time again. Every time. We are still here even though we know for certain that the war isn’t over. We are still here despite everything that has been and everything that is still to come. We are still here, and that’s really something.
By Monique Potter