SO last time you read Part One of our playwright and producer Eloise Maree's tale.
Well, to help with mid semester and monday procrastination, here's Part Two!
Then, just as a blink of an eye [which is unquestionably short] they found themselves grown up, middle-aged, as husbands and wives with jobs and children and they had forgotten they silly days of misspent youth. They had, after all, found their happiness. Their spirit was calmed and their lives were bound. They’d forgotten the sticky mornings of waking with strangers and quietly being sick in the toilet and spending hours preparing themselves for such glories.
In one way, they’d grown uptight... in another, they were free of the self-ridicule that becomes such meaningless chunder. Sometimes they were confused about how they ended up in such a place and had to remind themselves that it is what they wanted so long ago [but why?...their mind would drift]. And at times, persevering times they were, they would re-call their former glories. Alcohol would numb their minds and their bodies and once more they would be young- oh so young! With loud voices that over-pronounced their delicate feelings and dancing limbs that knocked and swayed. They would once more forbear the strip of clubs with wild young things, shacking their manes together on the floor and bellowing out forgotten favourites [that had since become vintage treasures]. For beyond the haze of booze, there was a pride which swelled through these nights. A pride which one may only find in those who refuse to face a reality. A glistening refusal of norms - the very norms that clutched and constricted their being; one that felt as if it lifted them beyond everything.
In fact, such nights were purely numbing them from the problems they faced. They were a band-aid over intangible grazes the not-quite grown-ups had refused to notice. But yet they drank, so they sang and how it drove their dance! Shackles of responsibility were not felled, but they were loosened and shaken. Sex, mania and booze were sucked into the soft spaces of their lungs. And such is the glory of that dark strip of colourful clubs.