It grew like a pimple. At first not very conspicuous, but one day its ugly white head surfaced. Still under control, I thought. It's just a pimple, I've been through many.
I put ointment, and there was discomfort, on the brink of protest. How dare I? But I knew I had to make things better. In fact, I do think I'd cooled it some bit, though clumsily, letting the cream leave a mark on every object I touched.
I left it alone, and didn't bother. Didn't worry about whether it even existed.
It was drying up. And that abominable habit of mine of picking scabs- I touched it again. A slight attempt at picking it out. At first there was raw flesh, a little blood. It's almost gone now, I thought. Just like all pimples, the light brown mark will also fade away soon.
But what I didn't realise then, and see now- it just turned septic. It's festering inside the skin now, without a word to me about what might happen. And I will of course not pick at it. At most, I'll rub one of the more powerful creams on it which I know of, and wait for results.
The above is more than the story of a simple pimple. It's the tale of an event in the past, the memory of whom sits in my mind like a scar that refuses to get wiped away. It's afraid that a lot more will get wiped away, and leave me in the nothingness I'd belonged in before the time that the unwanted event happened, and just before a spring time dream had bloomed in velvet around me.
It's not worth ruminating, I know. Stiffen up soldier, I remind myself.
Waiting for time to take matters into its own hands.
I put ointment, and there was discomfort, on the brink of protest. How dare I? But I knew I had to make things better. In fact, I do think I'd cooled it some bit, though clumsily, letting the cream leave a mark on every object I touched.
I left it alone, and didn't bother. Didn't worry about whether it even existed.
It was drying up. And that abominable habit of mine of picking scabs- I touched it again. A slight attempt at picking it out. At first there was raw flesh, a little blood. It's almost gone now, I thought. Just like all pimples, the light brown mark will also fade away soon.
But what I didn't realise then, and see now- it just turned septic. It's festering inside the skin now, without a word to me about what might happen. And I will of course not pick at it. At most, I'll rub one of the more powerful creams on it which I know of, and wait for results.
The above is more than the story of a simple pimple. It's the tale of an event in the past, the memory of whom sits in my mind like a scar that refuses to get wiped away. It's afraid that a lot more will get wiped away, and leave me in the nothingness I'd belonged in before the time that the unwanted event happened, and just before a spring time dream had bloomed in velvet around me.
It's not worth ruminating, I know. Stiffen up soldier, I remind myself.
Waiting for time to take matters into its own hands.
