13/11 the 89
Most days, the threat of another terrorist moment passes by the collective conscious where I am from. People die, an insane ideological idiot drives a lorry, a bus, shoots a gun. It's somewhere else I say. We all say.
The Bataclan was a little different. A place where young people convened to listen to music and revel in sound. A place where I have been before, albeit in the southern hemisphere.
I walked today. What seemed like an age. And in that travel, I ventured to the Bataclan. A place where 89 people passed. Trampled by bullets from an idiot with a gun, and an idea that those bullets could improve his standing in the world.
It never will.
The young woman who seemed to tail me, also taking in the environment proves that.
The young family from somewhere in the world proves that.
The flowers and the candles adorning the windows prove that.
Me returning to the scene, I hope, proves that.
And as I briefly scoured the site, I ingested its mundanity. A slightly colourful building in the bottom end of the west of Paris. Adorned with the simplest of signs. A splash of colour at the top of the structure.
And the windows where people escaped. Fearful for their lives.
Like I haven't had to. Where I hope I will never be.
Vive La France.