I wrote a story last night. It was about September 11th and was titled "The day that God died" this was in fact the second story I've written with that title. I have a kind of fascination with the idea of something seemingly timeless coming to an end. God, Love, Music, The World,The Sun, Hope.. and I have a thing with symbolism. I like writing things with lots of metaphors and stuff. I also like reading stuff like that. I think that's why I'm so into poetry.

But anyway, back to the story. It occured to me that there is not a single person who I would allow to read either story. Not because I think they're crap, or even that they say something I'm embarrassed about. Nothing like that. They're just extremely personal.

September the 11th seemed so surreal it was amazing. I just sat in the living room watching those towers go down, with all of those people inside. I was watching hundreds of people die right before my eyes and it wasn't a film. It was real. America had been attacked pretty much for the only time since Pearl Harbour. But this was totally different. Not that I remember Pearl Harbour of course, but at least that was an attack on the military which really in war is pretty fair, but this was just a building with thousands of unsuspecting people inside. Cleaners who had no clue about international politics, who just worked there because they needed the money, children visiting their parents at work.

I wasn't really sad for them though. I'm sorry for that, but I just wasn't. It was just amazing. Exciting in a sense. Obviously I would rather that it didn't happen, and this is a selfish thing to say, but it made life that little bit more interesting for a few weeks.

I don't know whether I'm the only person who's like this. Who allow themselves to be in a sense happy about horrible things because it makes their own pathetic, minute and irrelevent life just that little bit more worthwile, or whether perhaps I'm not the only one. I'm just one of the few who will admit it. It's hard to know though.

I also confess that for a few minutes I thought "Ha! That should teach the goddam Americans that not everybody in the world likes them, and that we're not all happy with the way they're running things and expoliting other countries, and that they're not invincible!"

And then the news started talking about people phoning their families on mobile (cell) phones while buried under the rubble, knowing that there was no hope of them being found alive. That was horrible and that was the only time during the whole thing that I cried. I couldn't stop myself either, I just opened my mouth in shock and tears just started falling. They were the sacrifice. They were the sacrifice for the change in the world that the suicide bombers had so wanted. And yet there was no change. If anything their sacrifice has made the world a worse place.

It pissed me off though, how George Bush was so quick to throw these men who had given their LIVES for a cause off as "Bad men". I don't believe they were bad men. I don't think anybody who is willing to give their life for something can be a bad person. Be that a political cause or their families. I think they did a bad thing, yes. But it was for something that they believed in, as wrong and cruel as that may be.

But I think surreal is the right word. The pleasure I felt, and the pain I felt meant nothing, because when I look back on it, I just remember it as a dream sequence. One which resulted in some bad things happening in real life. If it was real, if that happened in real life, how is it possible that I could go into school the next day and people be talking about who they fucked last night, or how their parents grounded them for getting home late, or how their computer wasn't working properly. I mean how could they be? It can't be true. It wasn't real. How could those people be discussing a new album that they bought if it was real?>