We were bright minds.
We were riding our first Springs, fighting and floating in our hormonal quests.
Just teens, calves, sprouts.
Fairly thirsty for life, we were facing the promised Level Up to Adults dragging with us all the phantoms of our mass-media based training.
Anorexia went back to fashion as long as the evergreen White Pow(d)er.
Years of Lead were ready to be forgotten, Berlusconi was the personification of many people’s wishes and luring desires.
Our brains were constantly under the obsessive stimulus of an absurd and kitch american-imported model.
Fake Blondes flourished in every peninsula’s corner, once again.
And there she was, my Cecilia, jumping of joy while unpacking a randomly sealed box from
(drums)
UK!
Temporary Hair Colour: Indigo.
Quite a trivial scene, as you might observe.
But how much of your teen beliefs and understandings would you subscribe today, as well?
At that time, she appeared to me as a pretty good choice: she was clever, book ravenous and a good writer.
I was trying to fight something, for sure, but nor a shade or an outline of it was accessible to me, and I felt she was engaged in a similar battle.
Plus, we were classmates and practically neighbours.
Plus Plus: she was indeed a pretty nice genetic arrangement.
See previous posts about 'Cecilia':
https://steemit.com/lgtb/@serste/that-time-that-i-stopped-writing
https://steemit.com/firstlove/@serste/what-could-possibly-go-wrong
