Blast from the past


Last night I got a call from an old friend from Singapore, who I’m going to call … Neil. It’s been a long time since we spoke, emailed or had anything in common. Still, he’d managed to find me, and I respect that. What I don’t like is the way there’s never anything good to say. When I look at the photos of the days where we were all mates, there is a tinge of sadness, of course. Those were the best days of my life. But I like to remember them as the best times I’ve had, not the beginning of the end for so many of us.

My brother, who I adore, thinks that I gloat about how well life has turned out for me. That I look down on those of us who failed to move on, failed to fight the way out of the traps we set ourselves. I don’t agree. I am different now, sure. Not proud of it. There’s a part of me that looks back, and wishes more than anything I’d never let go of the me I was. That I had never turned away from them. That I hadn’t been selfish. Like I said, those were the best times of my life. I avoid those of us who never escaped ourselves, sure. But that’s because I’ve been through all that, I don’t want to have to remake difficult decisions. Because I know my weaknesses, I know myself, and I know that if ever I went back, I am no longer as strong as I once was. I could never walk away twice. I never could.

So, Neil, if you’re going to tell me it’s my fault not everyone got away, or even that they got involved, you can stick it up your ass. I made my choices, and everyone made theirs. If they couldn’t do it, they didn’t want it enough. That has nothing to do with me.