posted on Sep, 12 2007 @ 04:49 PM
I might be the only one, but here goes.
I remember getting up, going into the kitchen, and seeing my father glued to the tv. He told me what had happened, and I stood there watching the
looping footage of the planes hitting the towers, the towers falling, listening to the broken-record reporters who had nothing new to say.
I remember looking around the kitchen and not understanding what the big deal was. In fact, I turned my back to it and went outside to smoke a
cigarette. I remember thinking, "So what? This # happens all over the world. Why is it suddenly such an up-in-arms tragedy when it's here, instead
of there? Why don't we have the same emotional reactions when other countries are attacked? Why is this so special?"
I remember sitting down on the stoop, lighting up, and wondering why I didn't feel anything, why I wasn't as moved as my parents, why I wasn't
anxious and worried and sad. ("Detached" is the best word, I think.) It did not phase me that people had died, were dying, were about to die.
Didn't mean much that planes had hit these 'important buildings' (of which I'd never even heard of before that day), that the country had been
attacked (by whomever).
Several people on the podcast (which was, by the way, awesome to hear -- I agree with Dave that 'twas better heard than read) said that it took them
a few minutes, even a few hours, to come to the realization of what had really taken place...
It has, quite literally, taken me years to feel something for this event... and those feelings are still very detached, very mixed...
(And after typing this, I'm fairly certain that I'll get flamed. But I'd rather be honest and unpopular, than disrespectfully lie.)
[edit on 12-9-2007 by Diseria]