Many in Manila consider Glorietta one of their favorite haunts. Years pass without incident, and soon, like our own home, such places acquire an aura of impenetrability. That is gone now. Horror has pierced clean through. You go down an escalator, ponder over the items you've seen on sale, match the colors and parties in your mind, blink, and the blast changes everything. On one end your life is taken - and so it was for nine people. On the other, you flee for your life at the crumbling debris. In between is a spectrum of injury. Some of you will need only stitches. Others will lose an arm, a leg, an eye, a face.
But whoever you are, you are a victim - unless you played a part in this, you lowlife piece of shit. For the rest of us there is only sadness, rage at evil men who did this, and fear. Fear that comes with the violation of sanctuaries, and with the swift deadliness of strangers.
The only cure is ordinary life. Malls that bustle, trains that run, crowds that mill; even an economy that continues to gallop with nary a pause, as I expect it would. Our routines are the most fitting rite of remembrance for this day of infamy.