I am emotionally unable to deal with the pain of the revolution; the murder of protesters. Protesters and bystanders alike were killed in cold blood by the Egyptian police in all ways you would imagine the cruellest. Obviously the regime thought it could quell the protests and, perhaps in an act of revenge at their failure, proceeded to fire rubber bullets, live ammunition and intentionally hit and run protesters with various vehicles.
Why people have to suffer, bleed and die for me to live, I don't understand. I survived the 18-day protests and sit-ins unscathed, and I feel I have not provided enough for this blessed revolution. Indeed, this revolution is so blessed that nothing short of our lives could possibly be presented to it. I don't deserve having someone die for me. Why did they have to suffer for us to regain our dignity? The revolution is now at stake, what if I one day realise that the dead have gone down the drain? Will I not wish I had been dead too?
Only I am not dead, and I am not alive. I am in some sort of limbo where I fell after the initial euphoria of success has worn off. I do understand cruelty is inherent and I will have to bear it the rest of my fucking life, when I or someone else faces it. In the case of the revolution, it was a collective dream and a collective goal. In my world this means we either live to see it all happen or die together, but this half-way reality is depressing me.