My alarm went off at 7 a.m. The first words I heard over the radio were, "Two planes have crashed into the World Trade Center." By the time I was waking, people's hearts were already spilled and broken on the streets of New York and around the world.
I jumped to my feet and turned on the TV in an feeble attempt to understand the indecipherable. I was not prepared for what I saw. It took me a moment to realize it was not a movie on the screen. "Oh my god. Oh my god." It was all I could say. I did not understand. I sat down on my bed, my knees bouncing up and down uncontrollably, tears spilling out and streaming down my face.
I rushed downstairs and found my roommates having breakfast, seemingly unaware of the goings on in our continent. I asked them if they had heard. Neither of them had seen the pictures, and one of them made some jokes. "But the pictures," I said. "The pictures - They're awful."
It was a torturously long week, and with the rest of the world, I saw the images over and over again, playing out like a recurring nightmare. We glued our eyes to the television, trying to wrap our hearts and our minds around the reality. I had just started a new job the day before the attack, and on September 12, my boss brought in a newspaper. The still pictures were even more horrible than the television images. I remember snapshots of a man in a suit diving from one of the windows, headfirst to his death. His journey out of this world was frozen in my eyes.



