back when you used to be fun we’d spend most of our time in run down discos.

11 pm was when we’d meet at the bus station and by the time the clock showed 11:30 we’d be making our way towards the queue. it wasn’t long because the sketchy places we’d end up in were anything but popular. the building was some old factory that’d been converted, where you’d most likely find (on a good day) cockroaches, cigarette smoke and people who looked and smelled intoxicated before they even got inside. all you had to do was go past the light-up neon pink sight that said ‘club’, that happened to be missing the letter ‘l’ because of a power outage.

1, 2, 3 seconds was all i was going to last holding hands with you before my palms started to get sweaty and I’d have to wipe them on the thigh-area of my jeans.

once inside? no one could predict what would happen. flashing lights made you feel sick and the drinking was definitely not helping but you didn’t seem to notice until we had left. for the next 2 or 3 hours we’d be there, falling onto the dance floor and cry-laughing at our poor understanding of what living life meant. this, of course, is only fun in retrospect, because when its 2 a.m, you’re surrounded by strangers and all you can think about is how welcoming and comforting your pillow is, you’re not having a good time. nevertheless, we seemed to enjoy putting ourselves through hell every now and then, living by the idea of not remembering the pain you were in some time before- you because of the drinking, me because i was lost, repeating in my head the way you say my name and the way the disco ball reflected in your teary eyes.

you were, truly, the Antichrist. but not for me. every time i got a club stamp on my wrist, yelled lyrics to a song, watched everything spin around me and wiped a tear from my cheek with you i felt whatever had been on my mind fade away. as the disco ball went round and your hair went down i watched as my life began to spin so fast around me that i couldn’t even see it anymore. all the stress and pain and, oh, what was i crying about earlier? i can’t remember.

then September came around and i was left empty, because everything i’d lived i’d washed away, some nights at 11 pm. the picture on our fireplace didn’t remind me of myself and i began to look coldly at whoever that was- facing reality and life head-on.

before 11 pm i felt, i lived, i smiled, i cried, i despised and just before i’d black out, i’d step on broken beer bottles and dreams. who knew that in 3 hours all i would remember would be you looking down at me when the night came to an end, like some god at his servants?