When I woke up this morning very early, it was dark. I walked into another room and turned the light on. The light was bright, and my face scrunched up in a certain way that I knew was the way I scrunched my face back when I was six years old or younger. The expression on my face that I could feel but not see brought the whole childhood thing back just for a moment.
In Marcel Proust's case, as told in Remembrance of Things Past, the taste of a long-forgotten Madeleine cookie brought Marcel's childhood back to life.
My face must have gotten into that position back then when I was woken up early or when a suspicious disappointment happened. Something made me mildly cross. That's as far as I can get. I could never write a book about it.
I would have liked to make this blog entry into a short poem, however.