In a larger, less concrete, sense, though, I feel that the absence at my centre is partly to do with placelessness. In New York, where I’ve been for the past few months, I turn hungrily on the street when I hear another Irish person on the phone I had given Dublin a shot for seven years after leaving school and nothing good had come of it. In a sense, I had given myself no choice but to leave and fast, having burned down a relationship and a job and fallen for somebody whose mild but authentic disdain for certain aspects of Irish culture had begun to rub off on me. It’s easy to justify my move, objectively. Rather than specific regrets, I tend to harbour a large, free-floating dread that I will one day feel remorse about the way I live more generally – the biggest and most troubling element of this pre-regret being my decision to leave Ireland. The concept of regret is difficult for me – not because I believe myself to have lived particularly well, but because to revise any decision could mean not meeting all the people I love, or not going to all the places that mean the most to me. No, I’d go from day one, a blank baby, just for the hell of it. In fact, I’d prefer not to have any hindsight: the idea of starting over and trying to live an unimpeachable life strikes me as a particular kind of torture. I’d go back and do it all over again, no problem. Not long ago, a friend said – in passing, as though it was so obvious that it didn’t bear any examination – that nobody would willingly choose to live their life again from the beginning if they couldn’t bring with them the benefit of hindsight.
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