London's Eye

Despite a morning that felt far to early to be past the boundaries of the night before, I was glad to be in London. It seems to me like London is the city of every season. I tell myself that I like it more in the cold but then I catch myself at Kings Cross in the summer months and I take it all back. 

Today was as beautiful as the day suggested: Sun-day. The light streamed across the pale blue of the sky that was brushed with clouds and the air was crisp and raw. It was beautiful. Really beautiful. I like travelling through London at the best of times but today was particularly special. It's Remembrance Sunday and all the natural beauty of the morning was complimented with the jingling of medals as war veterans passed by in their suits and poppies, their canes and hats. On the train earlier we'd picked up a group of suited school children who were destined to attend one of the services. There is something so festive and communal about seeing such sights. 

I'm not an advocate of war. And, like many other people I know, I don't think that the act of fighting and killing can ever be just. But today: Remberance Sunday, is not about the war (though without it the day wouldn't exist). On the 100th anniversary since World War I, it's about courage. 100 years of selfless bravery. 

People are different. People went into the war with different motives. Some went because they believed that their actions would lead to a greater good. Others were forced. But whatever the reason, those who made it through and those who didn't met with the same fate; they saw war. I look into the eyes of the people that pass by me with their tailored suits and medals. The eyes that now look out on the fabricated, technologically 'advanced', urban landscape that is London and the underground. Those eyes that look out onto the Gucci, Selfridges, Hollister and Burberry. Those eyes were the same eyes that saw guns, scaled pathways, watched the insides of eyelids as they slept in wait of the days, weeks, months ahead. Those eyes carry experience. Experience of it all. The then and now. The here and there. Stories, memories, experiences: told and untold, and etched into the dewy layers of the eyeball's gaze.

There is a different London this morning. Not the cosmopolitan hub of all-too-busy and not-too-bothered commuters as I usually come across. This is a morning in London marked and ruled by history. It is the hub of millions of stories: told, untold and yet to be told.

And so as I leave Waterloo, the rising sun awakening the country, the thoughts of a ugly morning fade. How glad am I that I was up at 6:30am on a Sunday to see it all? The answer is very.