I know looking back in hindsight always makes things seem a little more romantic and rosy than they really were. Things that happen in the past are always referred to as "the good old days" or "the best time ever". I spend most days feeling like I'm in limbo, wondering what will follow, where I'm headed or with whom. And I'm sure a few years down the line these hazy seemingly hollow days will turn into the golden oldies, the primrose path of the past, just the "best time ever". Still, I cannot help but miss some of the old days. Life may seem perfect and content now, but I do miss the imperfections of the past. The uncertainty, the pain, the frustrations and even the suicidal tendencies. Even the struggles were fun. You reach a point when there's nothing more that you need and then there's nothing else to look forward to.

Time was when I spent 3 hours in a crowded, smelly train compartment that would amaze the entire sardine packing industry in Portugal. Inching my way to the front, I would hang on to the bar in the middle and push my face forward to suck in air that was already polluted but in that scenario seemed fresh. Scratchy tapes in a dusty rickety old walkman would channel lifeblood into my ears as I longed to lunge forward. I wanted to get out and move on. My life, I was sure, was waiting for me on the outside while I was stuck on the inside. Sometimes I just wanted to jump off. But I always thought that whatever I did and wherever I went would be better. I wanted to be anywhere but there, anywhere but home.

Mornings would be spent poring over 4 different newspapers, making mental notes, sucking in every bit of information I needed and even some I didn't. A quick shower and even quicker brunch and I was out of the door. An hour and a half later, my tired eyes would stare at flickering screens until 3.30 pm. Then a break. With lots of strong sweet tea, cigarettes, sometimes beer. A laugh or two. Or sometimes a useless long distance lovers squat. More reading and then back to the grind. Most nights till 1.30 am and then to catch the last train home, but not before dodging and fighting off drunks and druggies who thought I was a streetwalker.

Sometimes if fortune favoured, it was a quick walk down to only place that felt like home - beer and the jukebox. Flirtations and frustrations all poured out. Lots of liquid gold poured in. Always, always with the future beckoning. Then some days the late night show would serve as a respite. Even if it was a soppy chick flick about a girl in love with a guy in a coma. Smoking sweet Indonesian cigarettes before and munching caramel popcorn later, a brief interlude with the silver screen. Sometimes I held hands with present company and walked down to the grounds opposite the imposing yet stunning reminder of a colonial past. We sat down on the grass but did not look up at the stars. Instead we talked about the grime and underbelly of life as a hack. No silent moonlit skies worked their magic on us. Real life is rarely romantic!

Sometimes we sat facing the sea, the salt in our hair and on our faces, an unsolicited yet welcome kiss on my lips. An unsolicited yet hilarious proposal whispered in my ears. It didn't matter if someone somewhere waited for me, threatening to unload a host of unwanted issues, threatening to throw their life away when all the while I knew it was my life that was really being thrown away.