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Thursday, 14 April 2016


Up until I was 20ish, I strongly believed it is sight that is the most important of all the senses. Which made me wearing glasses with a combination of embarrassment and fear, when I finally agreed to put them on at the age of 13. And gladly put them away 11 years later.

(11 years later. Again. There is something significant about 11 year-period then. Interesting...)

Then the touch came as the crucial one. All the hugs and cuddles I was getting, and - most importantly - all the ones I was no longer getting, but missed a lot.

But at the moment, it is more about smells. The one of freshly cut grass brings back the breezy memories of time spent with my dad in the garden. Including breaks from collecting all the leaves and hay and cutting old branches. When we sat on the grass, watched the sun and the sky, and talked. Or didn't speak a word, just stared at the neighbour's cat following a mouse.
Then there is the one of the apple pie my grandma used to bake. Which would then be left to cool down in the pantry. And tasted heavenly.
And now, there is the one of the pillow I sleep on.

So, Proust was right...

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