It was the best of the times. It was the worst of times. But it wasn’t the tale of two cities – just of one. A city within a city. Like a tart in the garb of a saint. Or vice versa.
It was months of music – of discovering The Doors, Led Zeppelin and Pearl Jam. Of rediscovering Dire Straits and Aerosmith. And falling in hate with The Beatles and Pink Floyd.
It was a lot of long nights, some hazy with pot-smoke and vodka, others sweaty with dance or passion. It was the startling revelation that vice is nice.
It was filled with days of anger and nights of loneliness. And moments that stretched long with existential pain. It was the darkness inside, filled with self-destructive death-wishes. And many hundred split-second eurekas in cynicism.
It was madness and hysteria, some private and some public. It was high drama and sometimes, the theatre of the absurd. It was about accidents and accidental discoveries. It was about doubt and faith and the hollowness of both. It was fearing that you were wrong and hating that you weren’t. It was a falling apart of ideals, on a long journey of disillusionment. And it was also dark laughter at the realization that what fell apart was just the pretense at perfection.
It was like looking at yourself in the mirror and not recognising the person you saw. And then smashing the mirror and everything it reflected.
It was a lot of things actually. But it was never, ever boring.
The Chinese had a deadly curse for their enemies: May you live in interesting times.