The Cuticle And My Short Memory

Categories Human Nature, Nature

On my mind is the deliberate self-inflicted pain that arises from my lapsed memory or amnesia; case in mind being when I fall into the temptation of aggressively pulling out the skin flakes or peels that form around the finger nails after a long period of absence.

Apart from having forgotten the inundating pain of last time, falling into the temptation of picking these flakes is accelerated by their nuisance and irritating value especially when they rub against rough surfaces, when I am eating directly from the hands without cutlery, or when the raw skin comes in contact with water.

And so I quickly pluck them off.

The problem is that these flakes will not be picked without a fight; they will always carry with themselves fresh tissue; most probably what William Shakespeare called, ‘A pound of flesh’; and the raw areas they leave behind on the skin are extremely painful for several days.

I have no idea why these flakes do not appear around the toe nails but again toes have conditions of their own.

Apart from the smell that comes from between them when they are not given enough air, they also have no mercy when they are squeezed; friction or pressure on them will result in the formation of uncomfortable and painful thickened and hard areas of skin, otherwise called ‘corns or calluses’, on the tops and sides of the toes and on the balls of the feet.

I am an epic introvert, who quickly becomes an open book when I pen what’s in my significantly fertile mind; fertile as a result of bombardment by realities that are continuously captured by my inquisitive eyes, ears which are constantly rubbing the ground, through constant reading, and through dreaming too.

Writing provides an opportunity to ‘say’ what my unapologetic quiet mouth will not say; which not only soothes me, but also bequeaths to me a relief, a release, and a hope that the written words will change the world, even if only one person at a time.

And so should you seek, that’s where to find me; deeply tucked inside the blankets of reading, seeing, listening, dreaming, and then writing.

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