Friends reunited?

June 2012.

I went to a school reunion recently.  This is the post I was supposed to write.  I started writing it but ended up with Secret lives.  I ended up with Secret lives, with its dark undertones and confused message because I couldn't articulate what I felt properly.  I tried to set that right and ended up with Shallow Graves.  Third time lucky?

We are kites.  With all our possible pasts fluttering behind us like carnival streamers.  Each strand representing what could have been.  From a distance bright and colourful. They fly freely.  Floating effortlessly, weaving and diving, they move in no discernible pattern.  Only on closer observation can we see some are tattered and torn, little more than bright rags, the illusion diminished by proximity.  Some are short, ripped and stunted, never again to fulfil proper purpose, instead upsetting balance and creating drag.  Our lives are tethered by ties, invisible at distance.  Every move is restrained, bound tightly to earth, true freedom frustrated but essential to prevent becoming lost in the maelstrom of wind that blows ever stronger.  Our lives are like this.

For over 20 years I have not been back.  I unconsciously vowed never to go back.  Not through spite, or fear,  nor through any sense of righteous indignation.  I just moved on.  I haven't spoken to the people from my past or displayed any interest in their lives.  I didn't care.  For me, they simply ceased to have meaning. Until Afghanistan.  For me, and for reasons that are not relevant here or yet, Afghanistan represented something I needed to do.  But in preparing for it I was forced to consider, and reconcile myself with, my past.  Just as I had to accept the possibility that there would be no future.  As part of my mental preparations, I found myself drawn.  Back in time, and back in place, to another world, another part of my life, long forgotten, barely remembered, hardly considered.  Whether through a misbegotten desire for closure, whatever that is, or a desperate need to recapture a sense of, at least once, belonging.  I needed to look back and see something bright, something whole, complete and unblemished.  Something to savour in the times to come.  Despite having nothing to be ashamed of, I stole back, unannounced, unaccompanied, to see, once more, the places of my childhood.  I saw the school, the streets, the sights, but they were just memories, places empty of personalities.  I needed more. I felt the wind picking up.  A storm was coming.