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The Past | The Previous

Murder Spot Later.

i have become obsessed with westfield shopping centre.

i have been there twice since the day of murder and suicide. once with a friend, and once by myself. (though i should point out that i have had things to do in westfield, but whenever i go there, i am watching the spots where the people died) and i have parked in the same area both times. something about the whole thing and the whole day has really disturbed me, but not because two men died. the deaths themselves don't give me pause at any point; rather, it's the way people reacted, and the way that the centre itself reacted to the death.

it didn't stop when the guy leapt from the balcony. not even the ice cream store he landed in front of stopped. it kept on going, making transactions, pushing down the numbers in certain bank accounts, while rising others. the body was nothing. an unseemly splotch that was pushed away on a stretched, with white towels cleaning away the blood. nothing remains now.

it's not that i think people should have stopped, or should have done anything; nor do i think they should have remorse; no; nor am i disgusted by the fact that centre didn't close down.

but there's something in the whole act, in the four hours of that afternoon, that have settled unpleasantly in the stomach of my mind. it's as if i was suddenly offered this vision of what our society has become, of what we are becoming, and that it's all tied up in the things i saw that day, in my own actions even. the thoughts (inarticulate for the moment, beyond general statements) are running through my head, demanding, kicking, obtrusive on my day to day life afterwards.

but there is more: i keep returning to it, willingly, trying to solve the puzzle, to piece together the fractured view i have and see the whole thing unfettered.