London/Pt.5
Twenty-four hours home, my apartment was waiting to remind me of regular stark silence contrasted by the violence of a high pitched buzz razing my ears. Easy to forget in the background of the city, loud standing still. The constant chorus of unregulated feelings and devout ignorance to over exposure warnings.
People are going to ask about my trip so I should prepare an acceptable agenda for them. A story about skipping Buckingham Palace for a tattoo and solace of taking photos of dead memorials thrown in dense English greens. I could forget so much laying in that grass, notes of who I was whispered in little blades biting the edge of my ears. Stories stilled from the lips of the current tenants six-feet underneath and screaming. My favorite tourist activities involved dead things. Shrubby graves reaching out and reformed predators of the past looking back at spectators for thirty-dollars without consent—empty spaces where their eyes used to be. People moving in waves of honorary congregation, bewildered with the possibilities of another Earth and the things that ate from it.
Domestic terrorism is a union of previous routines and whatever kept you alive for the last week. I am actively evading mine, sleeping on euro-time. But the dreams are back already, and so must I attend to all my attachments now.