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Faded etchings
11:04 PM
Faded etchings

As I stepped out of the car, I caught a whiff of a very familiar scent in the air. I stopped in my tracks and rapidly inhaled again to see if I was mistaken, assuring myself for assurance's sake that it was not the product of a bored and over-imaginative mind. I needn't have bothered to double-check, for I instinctively knew that it was no mistake nor a hallucination. Because this was a scent that was once deeply ingrained on my olfactory nerves, tucked away in a secret corner in the very recesses of my mind. It was your scent.

I catch my breath and take a few steps closer. And I come to a halt, not knowing if I should turn back while I still can or if I should take one more step and risk remembering everything again. Prudence should have stayed my feet, but a reckless instinct moves me to take another step. And swiftly, I draw several deep breaths, inhaling that fresh, sweet smell into my lungs.

I stand there prepared to pay the price for those few gulps of that familiar scent. Bracing myself for the bittersweet memories that will assail me like a merciless tidal wave pounding relentlessly on an unprotected island. The rush and turmoil of emotions that will sweep through me and leave me thrashing for air, powerless in its wake. With its lingering cruel aftertaste of what I could have lost. And I wait for the inevitable to happen.

But this time round, the crushing blow doesn't land. Nothing ignites. No flaming conflagration incinerating everything in its path. No blazing pyres fuelled with emotion-loaded stories. Not a single spark. Not a wince nor an indrawn breath. Simply nothing.

Perhaps the memories have grown musty over time and need more than a mere spark to ignite it. Or perhaps I have semi-consciously relegated it to a dusty corner and it is now nothing more but a mere volume in a library full of books that have yet to be fully read and written.

But I feel a tinge of melancholy at this reprieve. After all, this memories have been foremost in my mind for so long that letting it go almost seems like parting with an old and dear friend whom I shall possibly not see again.

Maybe, just maybe, its time to turn to a new volume and jump into its story. Fully absorbing what it has to offer, no matter that we cannot fortell what chances the turning page might reveal or if it holds joy or grief for each one of us. All that matters is we live fully once again.

Written on Sunday, April 22, 2007; 11:04 PM


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