It's when I fear the darkness the most that I realize it's never really dark here.
Going down to the silent dining room in the middle of the night I sometimes remember mother having friends over. They're all stuck in the early seventies, unable or unwilling to let go of the past. Over endless bottles of expensive wine they tell their stories again and again. How they used to live life to the fullest, being constantly on the road or on the run, sleeping in Hyde Park just to see some concert the next day. Always high, never fearful.
I envy them, thinking that my youth will never be like theirs, never as romantic like a true dream of freedom. I will never see the Beatles or the Stones in some club in London, I will never live in that era, and whatever I can do now will never be good enough, never as rebellious or real.
And in the morning, as I pass that same empty dining room it suddenly looks so sad. Stains on the table cloth like fading memories, broken glasses like a shattered image of the past. It's so quiet, and I think of mother's friend and their lost lives. All they have now is a clouded memory, no matter what they did then they're here now, older than me, closer to the end.
I still have my youth, and still, whatever I do with it I will grow old too, and all I will have left is a stain, a broken mirror, something that were and will never come back. It's slowly getting darker.