Textured Memories

It’s a fleecy hoodie that I often wear during winter. It’s soft and worn-in perfectly, and brings back memories of days bitterly cold: days when I didn’t have gloves and had to bury my hands in my jacket pocket to stay warm. 

An old blanket, in remarkably good condition considering that it’s older than I am. It’s a talisman of when I was young and refused to use it, deeming it too scratchy for use. Nowadays it’s a reminder of time spent at my desk, with the blanket tucked over my legs to keep me warm while I study or write.

A light top, billowy and pretty and not showing four years’ worth of use. Despite countless washes it’s in good condition though the fabric might be a little thin now, and it’s a memory of complaining about the summer heat and delving into the freezer for ice cream. 

Bricks, smooth in their roughness and rough in their smoothness. They’re a reminder of high school buildings, time spent looking longingly at the outside world. They’re witness to tens of thousands of students treading various paths and using different methods.

Paper, smooth or creased, crisp white or faded yellow. They’re the memory of time spent studying, lazily flicking through glossy rags and lovingly absorbing the words of someone long dead. They’re writing or sketching or daydreaming.


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