God is bombing us. So it seems as the fireballs arc up: meteors that rise and fall inexorable back down down. They are bright and beautiful, starbursts, but this is not a firework show.
It is hard to watch, and know lives are ending unseen, snuffed out, stopped up as the blazes ball back into darkness below.
On the roof top I shiver, bone chilled. It is cold but I can’t look away, can’t walk away. I feel this is something I ought to report, but who do you call to say bombs are falling on a war zone?
It is remarkably unremarkable, right here, now, and that horrifies me. I am chilled. I’m afraid but still I stand and stare, as if to hold the sight strange, to testify that the sky is a scream and we are all statistics, numbered but not yet counted.
The skyline there, just over the fence, blinks bright then utterly black, staccato sparked. Heavens falling.
Shells sally back and fro. Strangely graceful, surreal as tennis. The game is set out well, landscape laid to build the tension of the final play. All seen 3D, widescreen, high definition. This is television.
I watch, I wait transfixed. I see and in that somehow participate. I want something to say, to find a way to testify but in truth I am plain ashamed.
God is bombing us. We watch. It doesn’t end.