It may be one of the oldest cliches of all, the longing for lost youth. We probably all lose count of the times a parent or an older relative put an unwanted hand round your shoulder and told you you need to grab every opportunity, because time is the scarcest commodity of all. You would of course bat your eyelid and beg to be allowed to go back to playing FIFA or stalk the popular boys in your class on Facebook.
Such obstinacy fades and shatters as the years pass. I, now in my mid-20s, with little to count as proud achievements in love or work, am already pushed towards nostalgia. The tragic thing is I wasn't even particularly happy during the times I am longing for. While we may eulogise summer 09 with its early morning drug hazes when we gather as friends, or laugh at festival tales from summer 11, all those times were beset with their own anxieties for me. I was forever wishing my friends would suddenly like me more over night; a beautiful angel may see my sociopathic moodiness as a manifestation of a pure soul; or my flights of fancy may finally bear fruit.
What is undeniable is that age and responsibility catches up with us all. I must have missed the meeting when all my friends decided a steady career was what they wanted above weekend revelries. I must have missed the memo that said our friendship group will get diluted after all. My greatest fear is to become a drunken man, alone in the cold winter night, walking aimlessly towards the nearest kebab shop, for some much craved muttered nonsense with the man behind the counter.
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