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Chapter Three

An ode to wrinkles 
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Life kneads one as the baker squeezes the dough. Some trace had to stay. Even the almost immortal Dorian Grey, the vestige of the exacerbated abuse of his body was captured in a paint covered by a white sheet in the attic.

 

It seems that for nature the physical evidence of time is imperative. A wrinkle is time carving on our faces.

 

"The truth is that one does not know when one is getting older. It just takes you by surprise one day to know you are not capable of doing anything anymore” was my grandmother’s answer when I asked her if one day the mirror had taken her by surprise, reflecting the many wrinkles that she herself created.

How can we erase the fears that stunned our sleepless nights? Would we be capable of eradicating the cloying memories of our obsessive love? Or would we give up the synesthesia of the smell of peppermint with which we associate Grandma's house? And, if ultimately our answer is a resounding no, we should forget about the many paths that lead to annihilating the peaks of our face.

 

A Hindu philosopher, Krishnamurti, spoke at one of his lectures on fear. The fear inherent in our human nature. He affirmed, give or take, that we live in fear: of eating, of getting old, fear of losing a job, of the wife, fear of living. We want everything safe and eternal. Change frightens our routine and daily life. It is possible that death is the immediate release of such human emotional slavery. When we die, we do not carry anything, pleasures, desires, possessions and consequently fears are abandoned. Old age is the last stage before dying and in effect we begin to die from the moment we are born.

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