11th September

How I long for the faded rainfalls of July, and the promise of half of another summer… I love autumn, and Kelvingrove Park is beautiful right now, with the fountain spray catching rainbow light and the trees at their finest in coppers and golds and reddish greens. Still, I am sick of the little bugs that creep into my kitchen at night under the cupboards and slink about the floor. The smell of the insect spray infects my head and I feel sick and strange. I could crush them all but it’d leave a mess. Killing things makes me feel weaker.

It’s 20 degrees somehow and it’s the eleventh of September. I’m remembering 9/11 now and that evening when I came downstairs to see my mother crying as she watched the telly while doing the ironing. She said something terrible had happened, but that I was to go to bed. Did I really look at those smouldering towers, flaming through my old TV screen? Or is this just something I’ve projected, in the thirteen years since when I’ve seen them replayed, countlessly, over and over again. I am obsessed with watching the film clips of the event; sometimes I can’t watch it at all, but other times I will play it on repeat, seeing different angles and versions of coverage. The more I watch it, the more I want it to feel real, and then the more…cinematic it gets. If you erase all of history and watch it as pure aesthetics, it’s something else. You think about the people falling, the people dead. What they’ve got there now, with the hole in the ground and the sparkling fountain. I preferred it when they just beamed two lights in the sky; there was something so beautiful in the intangibility.

I wonder what happens when we forget we are free.

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