Drenched to the Bone ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We stood in the smoke watching pork fat drip onto hot coals. I bought a cheese cake. Bought a new sweater. And went to a BBQ. Meeting like old friends do, we each brought with us some food and catch-up conversation. I actually said out aloud to my friends that, "it only takes thirty minutes to catch-up". And we all laughed, because in a sense we were still the same silly bunch, just a bit older. It has only been two years. But I caught myself holding out on what other things I had been doing, feeling, wanting to do with my life. I really wanted them to believe that I was doing OK. Maybe better than I really am, or strangely, better than them. My fingers were greasy from BBQ chicken wings and prawns, and I realised they might be holding out too, or maybe making their stories seem better. When we were suffering the same hardships, with uni work and exams, we'd support each other like we were in trenches bombarded by heavy artillery. What made me feel like these people I trusted so much back then, could not help me deal with any shortcoming or failure now? The situation was fucked up, but it was really just a part of moving on. We exchanged only unblemished success stories, telling each other generic fairy tales. I got some grease and tomato sauce on my new sweater. Someone brought out photo albums of their trip to Europe, and we each forgot for a while about where we were in our respective careers, just looking in awe, and in fun at some amazing pictures. We were in good company so we started, "Remember when?..." And then with excited voices we verbalised what seemed like a whole parallel world of food fights, breaking bed frames in hotel rooms, and farting in the studio. I stood at the smoky grill with my mate, watching others washing down overcooked pork sausages with cola. Some have gone really far, and others like me are just surviving, but I want to remember us as the same old silly bunch of fools. 7:33 p.m. - Saturday, May. 28, 2005 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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