We sat with our chins on our hands resting lightly on his bed with legs crossed and in shorts. The other two clambered onto the soft mattress I imagined to be psychedelic in colour, chins in their palms, dreamy smiles plastered on their faces as if induced by drugs and other young stuff. I imagined them wearing shades with cellophane for lenses, framed with cheap, immutable plastic and a ring of flowers that crowned our heads in hippie fashion. Nothing seemed too elaborate, too implausible or out of this world - all was groovy and groovy indeed. We outlined drum beats and bass lines with our warm, lively fingers the way I imagined children of the 60's and 70's would with their creaking ones. But as there was in ours, there would be a love in their eyes - a love that did not require reciprocation but communalisation; a love that came through in a familiar lyric in an old song because love was a recognised remedy for any war, for any spell of ill-favour at that time. We were children finding ourselves displaced in a time that had no use for our love. & I still wish I were a punk rocker with flowers in my hair; I was born too late in a world that doesn't care. To Queen, Elvis Presley, the Beatles we hummed we sang we felt and we bled. And to which, most importantly, we loved.
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