I Can’t Cry Anymore
I’ve been seeing videos like this every day for the last 20 months.
Children buried beneath rubble.
Mothers wailing over bodies that are barely whole.
Boys with no legs.
Fathers carrying the remains of their sons in plastic bags.
And somehow, I’ve stopped crying.
That scares me more than anything.
Because it’s not that it doesn’t hurt. It’s that it hurts so much, so often, that I think my brain’s shut something off. A defence mechanism, maybe. Or a symptom of something far worse. We’ve all been living with this horror, every day, on our phones—swiping through unspeakable acts while the kettle boils. And it’s doing something to us. It’s changing us.
A Man With Flour
Today I saw a video of a man walking home with a bag of flour.
That’s it. That’s the whole story.
He was carrying it like it was precious cargo—because it was. He probably had to queue for hours or crawl through rubble or dodge bullets to get it. Maybe he walked 15 miles. Maybe this was the first time in weeks his family would get to eat something real. You could almost feel his relief through the screen. That tiny, flickering moment of hope.
Then a drone ended him.
Just like that. A life, extinguished. Flour spilled across the ground. That’s the part that keeps sticking in my head—the flour.
White powder on the earth where he died. No weapon. No uniform. No threat. Just a man trying to feed his family.
The Real Line That Was Crossed
We’ve talked before about how this is going to haunt us.
This period.
These images.
This complicity.
There’s going to come a time when we look back and realise just how deeply this collective trauma has cut into us. And many of us are going to break. Properly break. With PTSD, with grief, with guilt. Because it’s not normal to watch a genocide unfold in real-time. It’s not normal to feel powerless while governments you voted for enable it.
And yet, today—today—Keir Starmer decided the most pressing concern in the country… was Glastonbury.
“A line was crossed at Glastonbury,” he said, referring to artists who criticised the Israeli army on stage — not the Israeli army itself. (Source: BBC Politics)
Not the white phosphorous.
Not the babies blown apart.
Not the aid workers gunned down or the journalists executed.
But words said on a stage.
Apparently, that’s crossing the line.
Not flattening hospitals.
Not starving children.
Not bombing bakeries.
But Bob Vylan and Kneecap, saying something impolite in front of a microphone.
I don’t know what kind of alien you have to be to hold that stance. I genuinely don’t. Because if that’s your idea of a red line—if that’s what finally compels you to speak—then I don’t think you’ve got a soul left to appeal to.
We are being traumatised in real-time.
We are being dehumanised by exposure.
And the ones doing it want us desensitised.
Numb. Detached.
Unable to cry.
Have you felt it too?
Have you watched the horror unfold, day after day, and felt something inside you fracture?
Or are your eyes just now opening — and the grief finally catching up with you?
Either way, you’re not alone. And you’re not mad. You’re awake.
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