ON SECOND THOUGHT – “Remember The Good Old Days…?”
Often, the thought comes back to me: “Remember the good old days…?”
When I was younger this simple question could stir in me an abrupt reaction, as a cheesy pick-up line would on a hazy evening. A wide smile I try to hide away in a failed attempt to disguise my fluttering heart. Rather quickly, I’d get chatty like that one girl at the bar who knows how to gather a crowd with subtle moves and sneaky gestures. My lips would begin the endless journey down memory lane and with elevated humour I’d tell tales of times I’d gladly fall back into headfirst.
The question used to open up old wounds and a large can of worms that still lingered. They weren’t the kind of wounds that triggered sweaty palms or an earthquake for a heartbeat. No, they were the kind attached to wholesome memories of childhood bliss and playful innocence.
On soft skin, they trace a map that leads back to the days of scrapped knees, unguarded laughter, bold foolishness and weightless choices.
A spark of wonder and curious eyes filled with just one question. “Remember the good old days…?”
Sometimes it wasn’t even a question. It was sometimes an affirmation, other times a cause for friendly confrontation or a new chapter in heated conversation. At times it was the lead to the amused “That’s not how I remember it…” or the occasional bluff within the “Actually, I knew it all along” that causes the room to go quiet before another round of scattered laughter ensues.
“Remember the good old days…?”
When did that simple question turn from cherished reminiscing to something just a little torturous? I don’t know when at the core I began interpreting that question very differently.
What was once blissful remembrance changed into something more devious with time. Now I no longer simply remember the good old days, but I use them as a threshold for all the things that are not so good about my days anymore. It’s become a mirror, the kind that shows what I’ve lost and who I’ve lost – parts of myself I sometimes want to take back.
An innocent question indeed… an innocent question that chains me to the past as though it was an all too perfect encounter I could never re-live.
No matter how much my mind tries to play dirty tricks on me, I know something for sure. The past was never a perfect encounter. There was nothing poised nor collected about it, and it was certainly no ladylike exemplary figurehead. The past was less of a headmaster and more of a messy drunk, in fact. It looked strikingly good like a bedazzled black dress but was tight and suffocating like it was five sizes smaller. It was shamelessly loud and obliviously bold, but it was all thanks to the untamed power of liquid courage.
The life of the party, it was that too, in an attempt to swallow down and hide sleepless nights. No doubt, it was the good kind of scarring that forced the trickling down of floating candid memories. But it also left scars that don’t heal and open up the more bitter pills were digested.
The past was as two-faced as a sly con artist, and I keep getting played by my own memory.
As it is now, life was complicated even then. It was never all vivid green or rosy pink. However, it was a kaleidoscope of fervent colours coming together to build a life.
Chasing what’s lost may be counterproductive. I often forget, though, that there can be beauty in loss too.
I lost a friend, but now I no longer walk on eggshells that are bound to break. I lost a dream, but I now have space to pursue another vision. I lost my patience, but I chased after my desires. I lost my temper, but I found my voice.
Your restless romantic roamer
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