The word "suntan" quickly brings the warmth of summer to my intellect — long apathetic evenings when time appears to extend perpetually, and the as it were objective is to feel the sun kiss your skin. Suntans are like gifts from days went through exterior, lying on shorelines, meandering through parks, or fair sitting by a pool with the sound of giggling within the foundation. They are updates of when life felt basic, when stresses softened beneath the sun's brilliant light.
A suntan isn't almost about the color it gives the skin; it's approximately the recollections it marks. It's recalling the salty scent of the sea, the abrasive feeling of sand stuck to sunscreen, the way a cold drink tasted sweeter after an hour within the warm. It's the buzz of cicadas, the gleam of warm on black-top, and the way your body felt so much lighter, as in the event that it had a place more to the discuss than the ground.
But suntans too carry a calm caution — the thought that as well much of a great thing can still take off scars. There's a lean line between gleaming and burning, between feeling brilliant and feeling harmed. Life feels like that as well now and then:
chasing brightness without realizing when to discover shade.
In a way, suntans are images of how we live. We chase the light, knowing it can alter us, check us, indeed harmed us on the off chance that we're not cautious. But we still reach for it, since being touched by the sun — by life itself — is worth it. We acknowledge the chance for the chance to carry a small bit of that warmth with us, long after the summer closes.
A suntan blurs, a bit like minutes do. But for a while, it's verification that you just lived within the light.
