Mugged by the past

Last night, a friend posted some old photos of his on Facebook taken maybe ten years ago. I was in one of them, caught mid-conversation, face turned slightly away from the camera. I flicked through the virtual album. There were a number of familiar faces, some still close to me, others now quite distant. One man had died some years since.

I couldn’t remember the occasion. I could not recognise the venue. It was just a party like so many others I’d been to over the years and no doubt like many others I would be going to again in the future. Many of the faces would be different but the scene would be the same as any within the inner north of Melbourne – mostly alternative, vaguely arty, various degrees left of the centre.

The photos came from a period of my life that I spend very little time thinking about. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that I’ve almost forgotten those times had happened, that I had once been the person that the photos now reminded me of so suddenly. Maybe that’s why I felt almost disoriented, why it took some minutes after to shake off the feeling of the time in between having passed in an instance.

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