Dear Earth,

Twenty-two. 22 is a holy number.

22 years ago, an unholy act occurred.

In America we have a socio-cultural trope where we ask one another, “Where were you on 9/11?”

We all know. We all have the same answer. We all know where we were on September 11, 2001, and we all have the same answer. Where we were. Who we were. What we were. Before — and after — that clichéingly momentous day. What a ride it has been. I am honored to have been along for it with you all.

Where and what I was: I was in San Diego, California. I was 14 years old. I was in Freshman math class, first period. I was running late for school, along with my mother, who was running late for work, and we did not watch the news that morning as we readied for the day, as was normal routine.

I was at Eastlake High school. I was nervous when the campus security guard ingressed our classroom door and said my name aloud, requested my presence without. I was nervous because I was 14 and I had cannabis in my backpack (brown dirt weed, it was).

I was unnerved when I stepped into the outside corridor. I felt trepidation when I stepped out and saw what I saw. Even more than only a moment before, when the security guard had hailed me within the classroom.

When I saw my sister sitting in the security guard’s golf cart, weeping and inconsolable, I was very confused.

When she blabbered about terrorist attacks and New York City and aeroplanes and the Pentagon, I didn’t understand.

When she calmed enough to explain, to tell and remind how my father was at that time then scheduled to be in meetings in the Pentagon as a US Government contractor with the Department of Defense, I was bewildered, harrowed, horrified, dismayed, and forlorn.

We watched in typical horror, you know the it, the horror — you were there. You experienced it, too.

We were without word of the father for 72 hours. It was personal. I was so hurt and so afraid. You were there. You were so hurt and so afraid, too.

The father was well and fine. We became well and fine enough, in time. But we were so afeared. We were so afeared that we rushed off into a frenzy of falsity, of misguided patriotism, of false accusal, of depraved revenge.

We burned and we pillaged and we rent our souls into two, then three, infinity. We fell.

We fell so hard from heaven. After we fell, we were fallen. On we went, down, down, ever down, in our pursuit for naiveté and womb of safety.

We had our war of terror.

And we did not know what we did not know.

…

Twenty-two. 22 is a holy number. 22 years ago, an unholy act was made upon our soul, upon our Earth. Our own. Upon our family. Our own.

Unholy act was not airplanes into buildings, not at all where airplanes belong. It was not men and women leaping from such great heights. Down. Down they went. And they fell. And when they were felled, they were fallen.

No. Unholy act began far before that.

Because.

Because there is no “World War I”. There is no “World War II”. There is only WAR. There is only terror. And terror began long before you or I or our grandfathers or grandmothers were born unto this place.

War began eternity ago. War began at the beginning.

*We* are war.

We are *the* war.

We are *that* war.

We are *all* war.

It’s us.

It’s always been us and only us.

We are so suicidal. So hurt. So lonely. Desparate, afraid. Terrified. Terrorized.

We hate ourselves. We hate you. We hate everyone, us.

But I love… I love everyone. You all. All you.

…

It took me 22 years to realize how unprocessed 9/11 remained within my own personal psyche. I mean, I never even discussed it with any of my many therapists or counselors over the years. I am done with my own personal fear. I do not own any fear. Fear cannot be owned by me, or you, or anyone. It never was *your* fault, *your* bad. You cannot own a fault or a bad.

I do NOT hate the Bush’s, the Rumsfelds, the Cheney’s, the Carlysle Group, Halliburton, the Bin Laden family, or Saudi Arabia. I do not hate the CIA, or the FBI, or any national government. I don’t hate anyone. Not even myself. I wish I did. If I did, still — like how I used to — maybe the next suicide attempt I made might actually work. But I don’t, and I can’t. I cannot hate you. And I hate you for that. I hate you for loving you. It’s unfair. It’s a curse. A burden. A cross upon my bent back. My brow, it stings and mingles. The thorns — they are sharp, horrible. I am bled. I am forlorn, dismayed, horrified, harrowed, bewildered.

I am of good courage, good cheer, good hope; with love in my heart, I am dedicated, committed, enraged.

I will not allow you to kill yourselves you stupid little human creatures. I am from beyond and I am this so much your loving father that if anyone is to destroy you it will be me from without and I will collapse your sky lantern upon your broken hull, the frigate of your cutting through space like you own the place. A golgotha become your spire of dirt and water and salt, the Earth you call home. A golgotha. The lightning-struck tower of your bowels, your hell. You, my Isaac.

We four now we ride and we decide. I love you so much, I’ll perish you save your lost and hopeless hearts, the pathetic fur upon your navel my blade to tear.