I had promised myself that every weekend of this newly begun 2026, I would dive into a marathon of the TV shows I’ve loved the most. The first one drawn from the hat was Smallville. A series I adored back in the day, about Clark Kent’s growth before becoming Superman, focusing more on his humanity than on his divinity.

I got my bed ready: a good blanket, my pair of pillows, and I started watching the first six episodes. After 1:00 a.m., sleep showed up… right along with a tremendous urge to pee. I got up and, on autopilot, turned off the TV and headed to the bathroom. Nothing planned; it always happens that way after a movie or a long watch.

But then I heard something.
A boom.
And another one.

My bladder gave me no mercy. I couldn’t go check the balcony; this was an emergency—straight to the bathroom.

Inside, with the stream running, I heard a sound I will never forget. Something that took me back to the Caracas earthquake of 1967; I was just a tiny thing then, almost a baby.

The sound intensified, and all my internal alarms went off. I wanted to rush out and see what was happening, but the damn stream just wouldn’t stop. I remember talking to my little friend, asking him to cooperate, to hurry up—but the guy completely ignored me, stayed there distracted. Until, when he finally felt like it, he stopped.

Almost with the tool still out, I ran to the balcony and saw nothing. The sound had stopped, too. I looked left, straight ahead, right, down below… nothing. I decided to go back to bed.

But as soon as I took the first step, it happened again. An explosion. I texted one of my brothers, who lives on the other side of the city:

—Bro, what was that?

He replied:
—They’re bombing the city.

I wrote back:
—Damn, but I don’t see anything from here.

I focused on the horizon, and that’s when I saw it: a large cloud of smoke. The alarms went off again. I ran to my laptop and connected to every social network, especially Elon Musk’s.

I didn’t stay glued to the screen. I wanted to live what was happening in real time, and for that, I had to be gripping the balcony railing. More explosions followed, that strange sound came back, and I don’t know why I looked up at the sky… and I saw it.

It was moving at an extraordinary speed, and suddenly something fell right where they had that wax figure. When it hit, it made a strange noise; it didn’t feel like an explosion. I’d describe it like this: not exactly a sound, but like when you touch a live electrical wire.

The place burst into flames, but the fire didn’t last long. That’s when I understood that the symbol of darkness was no longer there. Immediately, I remembered a moment years ago when I asked God, please, to let me see my country free from so much cruelty. From that memory, I went straight into gratitude:

—Thank you, Father! —I exclaimed.

Still gripping the balcony, something struck me deeply: there was no one on the street. No motorcycles passing, no sirens, no flashing lights. Everything—the area, even the highway—was empty. The silence became overwhelming.

That moment was shattered abruptly. Calls came in from everywhere. Messages arrived in industrial quantities. Everyone was calling me, and I answered them all. I reached out especially to the people I love who lived close to the most affected areas. Everyone was okay. Thank God. I spoke with my kids: all fine. Like a miracle, I even spoke with my exes.

I dove into social media. Images came and went—people crying, screams, chaos. Fear took over everyone, and I was intoxicated by it. My heart was racing, and my eyes felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets.

I stayed like that for twelve straight hours. More than twenty-four hours awake. Until I crashed. My body demanded calm and shut me down. My brain disconnected; the whole system collapsed.

I woke up in the afternoon of January 3rd. The news was clearer by then; it was known what had happened, and the international press was exploding with information. I held on for about an hour, and then I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to intoxicate myself again; I didn’t want to assault my mind. Since I already knew my people were okay, I went back to Smallville. Two episodes later, my brain shut down again until the 4th.

That day, I woke up with a firm decision not to connect to the news. I turned to my images, and that refreshed me. And even though I knew I couldn’t isolate myself completely, I told the Father: thank you, thank you, thank you. Now I only ask for a better country—one where we can reconcile, but with justice at the forefront, and where everyone can live in health and prosperity. I immersed myself in creating and scheduling content for all my social media.

Editing was my catharsis; prayer was there too. The fear hasn’t gone away—it’s still there, no one knows what will happen—but there’s a cool breeze that sketches smiles. January 3rd will stay in my memory like July 29th, 1967. I will never forget it.

Writing this helped me release the pressure that was still trapped in my chest, like a pressure cooker letting off steam. Hope has multiplied, and the smile is impossible to erase.