I was writing a short story when disaster struck.

I had about 40 minutes before I had to leave for my volunteer job and I was rushing to finish the story because we were scheduled to dine with a few friends of Jake at 8. I was behind schedule on my things to do for that weekend. I still had to finish the short story, write more words on my novel, finish the book I was reading and start two new ones, essays to write, applications to fill, emails to return. I was stressing out about getting it all done before dinner.

And then the whole world fell apart.

I have spent the last four days on the same couch, alternating between looking at the TV, computer and out the window. Speaking to my family every few hours to make sure we're still alive and trying to register all that's really happening some three miles from my house.

I've sent some forty emails to friends, ensuring we're okay, finding out about them. Each time the phone rings, I still jump, worried about the news it might bear. My family is miles and miles away, in a part of the world that's not necessarily safe. Especially now. But, for once, I'm glad they're not here. I'm not sure what's safe anymore.

I want to turn off the TV and tune out all the horror. I want to curl up into my own world and be glad that it's not missing anything. I want to go out and walk around like things are going to be fine again. I want to move on.

But I can't.

Since Tuesday, besides for groceries, Jake and I have left our house three times. Wednesday night, we went to 'celebrate' my birthday with two friends, four blocks north. On the way back, they were evacuating our neighborhood cause of a bomb threat at the Empire State building. The second time, on Thursday, for lunch mostly cause I was going insane indoors and Jason ordered me to turn off the TV and go out. And yesterday, to meet with a bunch of webloggers in New York City. I have had an entire week to catch up on my to-dos.

But I did nothing.

Even now, I open my book and my eyes glance over the few lines. Within seconds, I close it back up. I can't concentrate. I switch between the news channels, crying at the stories of strangers filing reports eight blocks south of our house. I call all the numbers they announce on TV but they're already filled up with volunteers. 'Call back tomorrow,' they say.

I reopen the Word file and stare at the line I left in mid-sentence on Tuesday.

Previously? Quiet.