There are, of course, some similarities between myself and this other Jake. Our names, for one. We grew up in the same town, had the same friends, carried the same Swiss army knife, loved the same girl, hung around at the same benches, but our lives have turned out very differently. Whereas Jake was hospitalised and possibly died from his act of pointless rebellion, I walked away with Tamsin and Will and continued on as before. I got my A-levels, handed Tamsin over to a life of self-destruction, and eventually became a teacher.
Now I eat beans on toast, drink beer, and watch football. I don’t read poetry. I walk past those benches and these days I do not hear the whine of the Mosquito. In spite of this I have yet to jump the canyon that separates me from the rest of the world, rapping in morse on the glass between us, hoping for communication. I don’t pretend or believe that there are life-defining moments, or that fate would be so unkind as to bet everything on one spin of the roulette wheel, but I do find myself experiencing something on waking, like a dream that sits for a few moments pretending to be reality. When it comes, more often with each year, I have to remind myself to breathe. I can almost conjure it now, without even closing my eyes: that sense of resolve and certainty, that clarity of purpose, that clear sense of right and wrong, in total possession of myself, where no part wants to fail.