On holidays in the UK when it happened. Hadrian’s Wall. I had no idea something big had occurred until I got back into the car for the trip back to the rented cottage in the Lake District. 
We picked up the thread of events from BBC radio. It still wasn’t clear whether the attacks were over or still ongoing. How many planes overall? Were there more horrors yet to unfold? Reports were coming in from Pennsylvania. Another plane, burning in the woods. Further collapses at the WTC. Who, what, why: unknown.
I remember that sinking, horrible feeling of powerlessness and fear; mystified at the depths to which humanity will go. Like staring into the abyss. I had felt this before, but never with such intensity. Thousands dead. How many thousands? They didn’t know. The journey was one of silence, interspersed with the occasional expletive. 
It was late that evening before we saw the TV images. The fires, the collapses. Images nailed into our collective consciousness forever.
I remember thinking: if this is what religion is capable of, I’ve had it with religion. I’ve since extended this to all kinds of political ideologies. A curse on all their houses.
I wish we could say this was the worst thing we would ever witness, but the catalogue of horror remains an open book. 
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