The sun, in all its golden arrogance, has a way of insisting upon presence. It presses too close, kissing the skin with a knowing that feels almost presumptuous. People speak of being suntanned with fondness about how it bronzes and blesses, how it leaves behind a warm, honeyed glow. But to me, there is something rather tyrannical about it, especially the one we have in my region.
Judging from how harsh the sun is here, I have always preferred the gentler hours. I love those shy morning lights that enter through curtains and the wistful evening sun. Those moments feel companionable, not overbearing.
A suntan, to many, is a souvenir of leisure. Kinda like a badge of holidays spent in languid bliss, of seaside laughter and idle afternoons. Yet I cannot help but see it differently. It feels like an imprint, an unsolicited mark left behind.
Anyway, it is a thing of choice as there is a peculiar freedom in saying, no, I will not take this with me. In resisting what the world so eagerly offers, even when it is deemed beautiful, or celebrated.
I do not want a suntan because I do not wish to be altered without consent, however benign the change may seem. Also, I am not a copycat. I do not wish to carry evidence of something I did not wholly embrace.
And so, I remain in the shade, unbothered, and perhaps a little old-fashioned in my ways, watching as the sun dazzles the world, while I choose, quite deliberately, not to be dazzled with it.
My response to the freewriters daily prompt