Echoes of the past

strangers passing in the street ...

That's all. I never thought I'd die like this.

The only thing I want right now is to play my Hammond, stretch my swollen fingers, and relieve the tension. Ha, I can't even get out of bed. Lungs are compressed at each breath and movement, and echoes of deaf pain are given not only in heart, but also in the head.

Damn, it's such a shame I'm spending my last moments like this. Maybe I have enough strength to look out the window at the cold, autumn London: on the street as always it rains, passers-by run under the roof, so as not to get wet, and yellowed maple leaves whirl in a wild waltz with a strong wind.

I have a little more time and energy to remember the days filled with different emotions and spent with Syd, Nick, David and Roger. These are the best guys with whom I had a chance to work, communicate, just to be close...

Syd  is a guy who was not just a bandmate for me, but a very good friend. He too quickly left our cosy team, and all these years I missed him. To be honest, I even wanted to leave with him, but something inside me prevented me from doing so, and so I stayed. And it was the right decision.

Syd was quickly replaced by a guy named David Gilmour, and hell, I thought I'd never be friends with that guy, but I was totally wrong. He not only found me individual approach, but and even was able establish with me telepathic contact.

Nick is funny and serious at the same time, very cool guy. He always treated me with warmth.

And Roger... A few years after Syd left, he was unbearable. Often clung to me for nothing, sometimes even insulted, arguing that "motivation to create new material." Of course not very offensive, but it was still unpleasant to hear these words.

His leadership shattered that pleasant atmosphere in the group, and it was not very comfortable for me to be there. But all this situation was saved by David, who his presence made it clear that everything is not so bad.

But without Roger, the Floyds would not have been what they had been for fifteen years, and so I endured.

From such memories, there appeared a lump in my throat, and my eyes began to swell from the tears streaming down, the tears accumulated in all the time, when I got my portion of insults from Roger during the recording of "The Wall". And then he fired me. I hoped he'd come to his senses and change his mind, but he didn't.

During this time, I endured everything, kept to myself, and could not speak to anyone, even to David, who always told me: "Heey, Rick, if anything, you can always share with me your feelings, and whatever happens, I will always listen to you and help. We're friends," but I never reached out to him. I regret it now. Now I'd give anything to have David here, sitting next to me, watching me cry and listening to my muffled sobs like I was a little boy who'd lost his favorite toy.

Breathing became more difficult, and each sob gave a terrible pain in the lungs, as if they were about to burst into many small pieces. But now I did not notice this pain, because physical pain is nothing compared to the moral, the one that I feel now.

But after a few moments something happened. Maybe I fainted? I've been losing it a lot lately, but it didn't last long. Then I came to myself again and lay where I had forgotten myself. But now I have something long lying in forgetfulness. The pain I almost did not feel, and the forces left me with frightening speed. In the eyes of darkened, move I could not. I knew I was dying with all the old grudges and worries.

But why can I still think and reason if I'm dead? This went on for days, or weeks, or six months. Time around me seemed to have stopped, and I still continued to think and argue about why I was still here and why I had not forgotten forever.