The summer of my 18th birthday was going to be the summer of maturity, independence and freedom.

I drank freedom so eagerly that I choked on it and, throughout that summer, autumn and the following winter, I was tied up, restricted, by this, night and day, month after month, hating it with every passing minute.

And somehow, after so many years, I remember it with a certain degree of nostalgia, fondness even.

Maybe it is because I have had enough time to get fed up with freedom; maybe because those who told me that I was born again on that day were right.