The Record Player's Playing The Best Times I've Never Had. So Why Do My Old Records Make Me Sad?
I hadn't seen you in years. So it was something of a coincidence that we bumped into each other in the same pub we used to put the world to rights in, all those years ago. That probably wasn't a good thing though. It gave me false hope that, despite the change in your appearance, that nothing important had changed. That wasn't the case though. Oh no.
I soon grew to realise that all those things that once brought us together, all those things that once were so important to both of us, now just separated us. You'd deny that of course. You'd probably claim that you're still the same person you were back then, and the only difference now is maturity and experience. But I just don't believe you.
The fire had gone. What burned so bright in both of our eyes, now seemed to have been quenched entirely in you. All those things that made us angry then. You were still against them. But you weren't angry anymore. And worse, I think you'd forgotten why we were angry in the first place.
So we made small talk. Conversations that once would have been important were now meaningless and trivial. And then we moved to one that wasn't. And I hated that even more.
Look, it's not that I don't understand a lot of what you're saying. Yes, the scene is all those things you say it is. It's elitist, dogmatic, purist, self important, cliquey.
But what you don't seem to understand is this. For some of us, it's still something we can call our own. It's still ours. And while you and your ilk come in, take what you need, and then walk away without a second glance, we're still here.
We're still fucking here.