6/28/2013

It's not.


It's a street corner like any other. Except it's not. It's two streets meeting, brick walls and paving stones, it's the sound of city life rumbling by and the vague smell of piss and asphalt. There are people, lots of them, there a guys begging for money, there are shop assistants having cigarette breaks. And there is me, breathing through my panic. My mouth tastes like something you have to swallow during a dentist appointment and I am suddenly very aware of my own pulse.
I had no idea it would be so hard, had no idea that I could feel such irrational fear. Because it is irrational, right? Nothing can happen to me? You don't get almost struck by lightning twice? Or do you? Have I used up all my luck? Will the lightning hit me another time?
Two and a half years ago, this was the street corner where I stood, moments before a suicide bomber tried to blow up the entire shopping street. His bombs didn't fully detonate, otherwise it would have been hundreds of victims. Because of his own incompetence, it was only he himself who died.
I have talked about this with people and I have written about it. I know that there are people who have been through a lot worse. I know there are people who really looked death in the eye, whereas I have just caught a brief glimpse of him, in passing by. I know this. I know that I should probably stop thinking about it altogether. I should never mention it again. I am sure it would be the wiser choice.
So why can't I pass this street corner without sweaty palms? Why can't I breathe normally? Why do I always, always turn my head and stare at that point on the ground where he died? It's a street corner like any other. Except it's not.

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