Yes. Memories, history, regrets, un-pursued possibilities and wanton ‘what if’s. You could spend forever re-living the past in the present using your memories as some type of virtual reality existence. You want happiness, think joyful thoughts of all that sun drenched nakedness at 18 and those lauded performances on the stage; sadness can be enjoyed with the prolonged death of Floppy the cancerous rabbit or perhaps the time you let go of the rope and Peter fell 180 feet to his death. The possibilities are endless with the mixing of memories and the use of imagination for artistic embellishment. Like, how about the time you abseiled down that 1800 foot cliff in a rabbit suit and did a back flip and landed on that amphitheatre stage on the beach which had an audience of naked ladies clamouring for your soft and skilful hands to cure them of their skin cancers. Wahey!
The passage of each day is bringing me closer to forming a terrorist group of my own.
When I was but a wee young stripling of a lad I remember continually arguing with my parents after one occasion when I made the fatal mistake of being honest with them. I had just smoked my first few spliffs down the bottom of the garden and foolishly, and perhaps because I was freshly stoned, I presumed that Mum and Dad would understand my curiosity and would leave me to it. I mean, the authors I was so enamoured with at that time were all prescribing healthy doses of all sorts of pharmaceuticals; Huxley liked his mescaline, Kesey his LSD-25 and Burroughs his smack, to name but a few; and I thought that the rents would take my mild investigations into these matters with a nurturing pat on the back. This was not the case.
Hence followed two years of them shouting at me that I needed counselling and me replying in shrieks that it was them who needed help to deal with the reality that,"everyb...
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