I am having the same sense of unreality I had after 9/11. That whole “What just happened couldn’t have actually happened, could it?” feeling. That sense of walking on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop. That dread of what could come. That horror over what did happen. The feeling of helplessness. The sense that the world, especially my part of it, would never be the same again, and that it would change in ways that would be both agonizing and permanent. The fear that my friend’s children might not live to grow up because a world-ending event might be on the horizon. The dislocation of feeling there was nowhere to run to, because the rest of the world was rocking on its foundations as well. The fatalism. The fear of both watching the news, and not watching it. The feeling that our leadership might not be adequate to get us through intact. The ache to do something, anything, and knowing that nothing would help, nothing would undo what had been done. The agony of knowing Al Gore had actually won the damn election and yet we had a goober sitting in office who very clearly showed he had no idea what to do, and would be easily led to do the wrong thing by people more venal and horrible than even himself. It feels unfair to be going through this again just 15 years later, but grownups know the world isn’t fair, and don’t expect it to be. And yet . . . just this once . . . I want it to be fair. I want to kick and scream and cry and rant and have it work. Have it mean something. The next years are going to be just plain horrible, and the world seems dark and indifferent.