If Philip Lynott had been reincarnated into a new born baby the day he died, as apparently some theories hold happens, he’d be old enough to drink in the USA again.
I miss him very much, but you should already know that. Right now at Vicar Street in Dublin there are hundreds and hundreds of people listening to loud guitars attempting to reconjure a magic that has long been absent from the world of man. It can’t be regained or reproduced and my heart bears the scars of such knowledge.
I am not in Dublin tonight, but I wish I were. Not because I’d be any closer to Philip than I am now, not because I could say I was a real fan then… because I miss the town of Dublin very much itself… and because at least surrounded by Thin Lizzy fans I might not feel so quite alone in my probably misplaced grief. It’s hard to feel lonely or even terribly sad when surrounded by a thousand drunken fools humming the bassline to Dancing In The Moonlight.
But I’m not there. I’m sat in my room killing time before Grey’s Anatomy, trying to get used to the keyboard I bought to attach to my laptop until I can afford a new computer.
I’m not in Dublin. I’m not in Dublin and it’s not 1971. Every year takes me further and further and further away from the people I’ve loved the best.
If dreams were wings, I’d have flown all the way to Heaven to sit with my Philip by now. If love could possibly be enough to resurrect the dead, he’d be sat with me now. Or perhaps he’d be at Vicar Street with everyone else.