phantom sweats

30/01/2010 § Leave a comment

I was standing in front of the mirror, I had just got out of the shower. I made sure to moisturize my face first, ensuring for maximum water retension. Old people don’t like wrinkles.

I worked a different moisturizer onto my arms, body and legs, the film of milky-white resin hanging, hovering, on top of my skin. It’s been too hot for my body to absorb anything, let alone my brain. With this heat wave, I learned what it meant to sweat. But, I still moisturized everyday.

I spray on my all-natural deodorant, it sticks like little drops of dew and clings to the stubble. It seems like such a chore to cleanse oneself. I can’t get dry.

I turned on the overhead fan and waited for evreything to soak in or float away, spun off from my overheated skin, like a frying pan. After twenty minutes, I feel dry. Dry enough. I slip into some clothes and feel trickles of sweat creeping down my arms towards my elbows. I try to wipe the perspiration away and find nothing. It was dry.

That’s what memories are like. They are like a habit, good or bad, that always creep up on you when you are least expecting it. You hear a laugh, a saying, a song. You try to wipe it away, and realize it wasn’t even there.

However, there is room for change. Habits, like all behaviour, evolve and disappear over time. As much as we hate watching it, or paying attention to it, time can heal. Maybe that’s why people have a love-hate relationship with time: because it can take away your memories while it is such a big part of those good memories. Funny thing is, you can’t love or hate something that doesn’t exist.

So, does it? And, how? By the hands on your watch or the wrinkles on your face? Doesn’t time equal space, and if it does, what point are we starting at and where do we finish?

I would prefer to just wipe it away.

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