Wednesday, March 22nd 2017

When I took a snap of London’s view from my classroom window my lecture rambled about “Memory Talk”. Nothing foresaw what would happen in a few hours. And even though I’m sure that I will never forget this day, I’m not sure what I’ll remember about it.

From the three groups of teenagers leaving my street’s hostel on their way to Southbank.

The several policemen I saw walking up and down without being able to count. Around 8, I believe.

The first laugh of disbelief when the rest of the world assumed it was terrorism.

The feeling of being so far when I was so close.

The calls and messages I expected, the ones I didn’t expect.

The cutting sound of helicopters round and round.

The ambulances and blue sirens’ cars putting everyone’s heads up. Desperately looking where they’re heading to.

To Death.

Today we learned that we only start having memories after acquiring language, and they are only recalled when we’re talking to someone. However, it’s the absence of words that will stay with me. The sight of everyone leading their ordinary lives in unordinary silence. A forced attempt of not remembering today the very next day.
And when you have no words you rely on other’s.

‘This is the way the [day] ended, Not with a bang but a whisper’ (T.S Eliot, 1925)

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