Sunday, 15 November 2015

a pocket full of metro tickets.

I spent 10 days in Paris and it was pure bliss. 

Infinite museums and bookshops to browse about, a city that is so beautiful it’s ridiculous and the company of an old friend and a new love. 
I couldn't have been happier and more carefree. It was the best time I had in ages and came back feeling lighter and jokingly saying I felt so light because I hadn’t fully returned yet.

Imagine my dread when, a week later, the bloodshed happened.
I stared at my phone with sweaty palms and a heavy heart as news reports got darker and darker by the hour.
I had no words.

I have no words.

I live in a place where terrorism isn’t a major threat. It’s not that I’m indifferent to mindless random violence happening in other countries. But it's a distant reality.

This time was different. 
There were people there I call mine. 
It was on the streets they walked.
It was on the streets I walked with them. 

I went from wanting to read all about the attacks, every tiny detail, because I thought that would help me make sense of it, to feeling so sick about it and getting off the internet completely. 

I know the shock will fade away. But my carefreeness took a huge blow this weekend.

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