a short semi-autobiographical piece I wrote over five minutes on Medium
|When I was a child I loved nothing more than getting out to birthday parties, Hallowe’en and Christmas celebrations. I always loved the feeling I got, not just when I was there, but maybe even much more, the anticipation and excitement, whether I was at school or at my Dad’s working or just killing time up until the point we headed out, the car journey (or sometimes the walk), full of thoughts of the joy at meeting friends new and fast, getting to indulge guilt-free in treats and play games as furiously as we cared.
Then, after all was finished the memories — not just to reminisce on at some point far on in life, but to think on as I went to bed or entertain me on a lonely walk to school and then to share with classmates (and normal mates) all the stories, those tales I would relate with perhaps a little more livliness than warranted (I was never too adventurous), of the rule-less football matches or mad sprints over lawns and fields, all the silly jokes we'd tell each other, and the hours spent inside on the Wii, X Box, Playstation 3 and sometimes Scrabble or Monopoly.
On thinking back now in my twenties, it just seems so idyllic, that I wonder; did my own penchant for exaggeration effect my own recollections?
I never have went out as much since I turned eighteen, when I left home. My parents were the sociable ones and once gone there was no push, but even as I got slightly more mature, when friends went out to house parties or for a night out I had no inclination to go along, and a few bad experiences left a sore taste for alcohol fuelled or spontaneous events.
It’s not to say I don’t have fun, or put myself in some room I never leave. I simply don’t ‘go out’ or ‘party’ much any longer. I just don’t enjoy it, which makes me question if I ever could, and yet I look back on those thought from my youth and think they are my happiest memories.