26th December 1999

It's 3am on the 26th of December, 1999. If there was a national insomniacs contest I'd win it eyes wide shut. Rick Price's Baby It's You is playing on the TV and he's singing / whining about the old days when he and some girl were like brother and sister, before Love changed all. And something inside of me's feeling incredibly sad and a tad wistful and nostalgic. I miss the days when life was that simple. I miss the days of playing bridge with gal friends behind closed doors. I miss the days of table-tennis on the teacher's table after class with surreptitiously smuggled-in ping-pong paddles. I miss the days of playing rugby for PE and pretending I had half a clue what I was doing, of tackling someone twice my height and bringing him down through sheer lack of proper technique. I miss the days of best friends, of committing yourself to someone every night, on the phone, thoughtlessly, just to chat, whether male or female; just to chat, just to keep the friendships alive. I miss the days of selfless friendships when friends were just friends because, when friends gave to each other unquestioningly, without thought of reward, just because. I miss the days when coney dogs and big macs seemed dauntingly huge, and root beer floats came in frosted mugs instead of paper cups. I miss the days when we walked around with our masks off and our guards down, when we were hurt by the silliest things for simple lack of paranoia, before we turned into the adults we are now, constantly on guard from the constant waves of threats other adults pour onto us everyday. I miss the days when paper aeroplanes were magic to me, when I folded different designs daily in quest of that perfect 'plane; some flew, some didn't. I miss the days when the biggest problem anyone else had was something as awful and earth-shattering as a quarrel with another friend, or getting scolded by the teacher, or, God Forbid, being caned by the principal, when we'd all bow our heads in silent reverie and wonder about human cruelty and rejoice secretly that the boy took it with such calm and dignity. I miss the days of writing mandatory journals for our form teacher and using it instead to implore ceaselessly for less homework for the class. I miss the days of falling in love with a best friend so innocently, so naively that I didn't even know I was doing it' until I had lost her. I miss the days when we spoke to each other, not as adults, but as children, heart to heart. I miss the days, most of all, when love was about giving someone else something simply to make her or him happy, and when it had nothing to do at all with risk/benefit assessments. I miss so much, and I know I can't turn back the hands of time like R. Kelly does on MTV, and all I can do is live this life with my head held high, while at once being shockingly naive, but simultaneously being streetwise enough to stave off the disillusionment and cynicism that comes creeping in with repeated heartbreak. I refuse to live my life in constant paranoia and be on perpetual lookout for personal gain. And so I walk this life, head high but heart low with other people's problems weighing heavy on these (rather slight) shoulders, and you know what? I'm glad that I do.

And somewhere in here, I fear -- I fear that I will meet someone who somehow makes me remember those days, who somehow makes me re-live them and become more than who I have devolved into, who makes me laugh from the soul and not from the larynx and whome I'd give wholeheartedly and thoughtlessly to, who unconsciously changes me without my knowing it, or without her knowing it, into someone who would stoop down to give a homeless street urchin a quid in the underground to buy himself a chocolate bar (and receive 20 pence change from him, not *quite* enough but no matter) and catch himself smiling bemusedly, at himself, and at the little boy, as he did so. I am afraid because I might let my guard down and begin to fall in love with her, unrealisingly, innocently, gradually; only to find out that she might not be who she pretends to be, and that I have fallen for an illusion. And most of all, I am afraid, because... I may already have met her. And if I have, I can only pray that she isn't wearing a mask, like the rest of the world, and that she won't, like the last time around, learn to wear one over time.