More explosions. I'm not a pacifist, but the explosions fill me with a kind of sickness. I walk around, bent and holding my breath. The blasts shake the city. They only last a second, but the damage is disproportionate, sometimes toppling structures that have stood for a century. Just as bad, they keep echoing in my head.
Growing up it was the same. Always homes or churches in black neighborhoods. Not some daring attack in a meaningful war. Not some passionate, principled confrontation. But something sneaky and low. Gasoline shaken from cans in the middle of the night. Fuses lit from a distance. Yelling and laughter, then the sound of a car roaring away in the darkness. That echoes too, being hated and humiliated for reasons that don’t make any sense.
Absurd. The absurdity of explosions.