When I was younger, I used to sprint long stretches on the threadmill at home with socks and shoes off. My objective was exactly to develop blisters of worthy-enough sizes which I could then harvest the skin with a nail clipper after a new layer has emerged underneath a couple of days later.
The product of it, a leathery, partially moist patch of whitish rubber-like material, made me feel good, in way that it made me feel uncomfortable. I felt uncertain holding the patch of material that has just molted from my body. I regarded it in a suspicious way, the way I think a butterfly will not actually do to its chrysalis. I kept the first one in a battered namecard holder which I passed on to myself after I found it lying around in the home office with its newer cousin lying proudly beside it. It would probably hit the bin and reside among apple cores and the cliche sort of trash with the not-so-cliche moth-eaten underwear found behind the unused wardrobe that afternoon.
I figured that its figurative company would suit my disowned toe skin moderately well. I would observe it when I remember to, which is often. And marveled at how alive something my body has disowned felt. I feel life in it.
I thought about amputated arms, amputated legs, of quadriplegics, of the careless pool of hair lying on the floor after a great massacre at the hairdresser’s, orphans, brain-dead patients, ingrown nails, expelled Yakuza mafias and their severed pinkies, liposuction, phantom pain, siamese twins and the girl with seven fingers who thought of hitting the operation table.
For the subsequent specimens, I gradually took them apart straight upon harvesting, peeling individual strands off the molt, the ridges of the toeprint as a guide. I felt my heartbeat traveling to my fingertips, throbbing.
It was sadly exhilirating, the job of a second-rate surgeon.
I was browsing through my Flickr photos and marveled at how I could have taken some of those photos I took in the past. But the marvel couldn’t have surpassed what I experienced when I went through a link in my Flickr and chanced upon one of the old pieces of writing. I totally forgot that I wrote it. I wouldn’t know that I wrote it if you were to ask me. I was only certain that I wrote it because it was attributed to me, of course and I had that account on that website -.- and uh, had the experience the short segment detailed.
I thought the writing was amazing. I only say this because I feel so detached from who I was 2 years back when I wrote it. It’s like appraising someone else. I think I forgot a lot of what I did 2-3 years back because those were truly traumatic times. I pretty sure the memory loss (sort of) came about due to some post-traumatic disorder. I was about to lament about the amazing stuff I wrote or did in the past but I checked reality and KNEW FOR SURE that I wouldn’t want to return to that hellhole.
Also, I know that I can write if I put effort into it. But nowadays, my brain is taken captive but whoknowswhat. But I’ll get it back. Before another round of insane studying starts next year. But damn, it will surely come again. No wonder adults are ‘boring’, as I’ve said earlier. No wonder you stop ‘dreaming’ when you become older, as detailed in The Little Prince, The Alchemist etc. I never thought I would be that way 2-3 years back. But at least right now, I’ve fully appreciated why one would be such way and at least I know I am in the thick of it. With the self-awareness, I can decide what I want to do with it. I can also decide not to do anything about it. The crux is in the deciding. (I know this is ungrammatical, as with many sentences in this thing but they sounded better that way, so I’ll leave it <— even this is ungrammatical e.g. 'leave them as they are' is more grammatical. So, in the same way, it occurred to me— I know what is grammatical but I can decide what I want to do with grammar.)
Anyhow or other, this stage in life is still a life experience. Just because it may be undesirable doesn't mean that it should be avoided. Truly in the spirit of living life like you're in a vacation, as I've detailed years back.