Hell is real. I visited it last night. It still hasn't released its grip on me. The whispers of the dead. The frightened silence of those who pretend to be alive.
We did not scream last night. We just listened to the defeating sounds as they stole our dreams from us. And we watched from behind the curtains as the sky became a carnival of colors never seen before.
And suddenly the whispers of the dead turn into a reassuring lullaby. Those who remained almost alive are ready to surrender to their quiet invitation.
Our sweaty bodies watched and listened quietly. None of us said much. our messages to one another were just as silent.
I smell of disappointment.
Hundreds of buildings destroyed at the same time. Our bodies sweating silently. I searched for my hear beats. Couldn't hear them. I searched for my veins so I could write to you using them as a witness. Nothing. Only the smell of disappointment.
And the sweat, slowly dripping on my soul. I do not remember at what time I fell asleep, nor how I reached the sofa in the living room. But I woke up on more sounds. My fur babies were curled next to me, so you can imagine the stiffness of my neck, and the pain in different parts in my body.
A strange smell has settled over the city. I remember at one point during the night, the earth started shaking. The raids are reaching several lower layers underneath our ground to achieve their mission. This resulted in an earthquake. We did not move. My fur babies looked at me to grasp my reaction. I had none. So they went back to sleep.
I write to you this afternoon from the kitchen table. The drone doesn't stop its inspections above us.
My hand is shaking as the raids have started early today.
And the drone keeps emanating small buzzing sounds.
I summoned enough courage in the early hours to cross and feed Blackie, the neglected dog who guards the land containing private generators.
I closed my eyes in relief when the sun engulfed my being.
How I miss my ordinary life. Blackie was happy with the food. I think she was happy to see me. I passed her the meal from underneath the fence, and she squeezed her head just enough to lick my hand.
I wanted to feed the stray dogs who live 2 blocks away, but the raids started. They were far. But I was simply frightened and hurried back home.
The drone and its buzzing sounds are killing me. My face has lost its expressions.
I want to build a new life. To write a new story. And the whispers of the dead extend their invitation. How many wars, dear anyone, must we fight before we are free?
I need to breathe. But my short breaths collide with my memories.
The sounds of Ambulances and the menacing drone. And suddenly the raids fall upon us erasing a life. A whole life.
But we must build a new one. Perhaps in the upcoming weeks.
I am exhausted. But do I have the right to be, when I see the foreign workers and their children hiding in small schools and churches and mosques, trying to feign strength in front of their tiny ones, Covering their small bodies with love, as the raids pour over our dead city?
But we must build a life. A new one? Perhaps in the upcoming weeks.
Until tomorrow, dear anyone. And who knows, I might bear the good news that I have finally taken a shower.
EN 
AR