a collection of scars
It occurred to me this morning, as my eyes flicked over my bruised, battered and scar-pocked legs, that we are a collection of scars.
there are spiral lacerations that stem from a memorable day at about age 7, when an innocent game of 'spin around in circles until you get dizzy and fall over' took a turn for the worse and ended up with me rotating at speed into a flower bed of rose bushes.
There are the numerous long thin scars that are the result of falling out of trees, or indeed having tree branches break underneath me.
on my belly there is a small round one that is the result of a christmas eve game of tip indoors where I mistakenly got caught on a rather angular door handle.
theres a gouge on my ankle from dropping part of the bbq on myself at about 5 years old. and the finger prints of my thumbs have been disfigured by a knife attempting to chop watermelon (resulting in my first of many fainting episodes), a jig-saw in year 8 design and technology, and a small one on my little finger will always remind me of peddle-boating on the Verdon Gorge with Al in the south of France.
Then there is the big one, my belly button. One that will jolt a memory of the event in question, because it has been there since before memory itself. But one that will serve as a reminder of the event itself, if indeed it is ever possible to forget that one was born.
Then there is my tattoo. Born out of so much pain, it is the physical reminder of emotional and mental scars. to ensure I can never forget.
I remember after a particularly painful end to a relationship, I accidentally burnt the top of my hand on an oven rack.
I remember how it felt, the hot stinging, and how much I welcomed it, because here was a pain that had a physical basis. Here was something I could source. I wished then that I could burn myself again. but knew that I shouldn't. I wished then the scar would stay with me forever. But it didn't. fortunately for me, the memory has remained even after the physical evidence faded.
We are a collection of scars. the physical and metaphysical tissue that mends and reforms itself to cope. The end result is a slightly different us. we are a collection of scars, and I'd never have myself mend completely. I am who I am because of the experiences I have had.
I am who I am due to the people I have met. More often because of those who have hurt me. It is only by letting people in that they can change you, and therefore it is only the people we let in who can hurt us.
I am a collection of scars. each an individual event, each its own story, but I am a collection, something that by itself means little. A collection, a dynamic, evolving collection.
Of scars.
there are spiral lacerations that stem from a memorable day at about age 7, when an innocent game of 'spin around in circles until you get dizzy and fall over' took a turn for the worse and ended up with me rotating at speed into a flower bed of rose bushes.
There are the numerous long thin scars that are the result of falling out of trees, or indeed having tree branches break underneath me.
on my belly there is a small round one that is the result of a christmas eve game of tip indoors where I mistakenly got caught on a rather angular door handle.
theres a gouge on my ankle from dropping part of the bbq on myself at about 5 years old. and the finger prints of my thumbs have been disfigured by a knife attempting to chop watermelon (resulting in my first of many fainting episodes), a jig-saw in year 8 design and technology, and a small one on my little finger will always remind me of peddle-boating on the Verdon Gorge with Al in the south of France.
Then there is the big one, my belly button. One that will jolt a memory of the event in question, because it has been there since before memory itself. But one that will serve as a reminder of the event itself, if indeed it is ever possible to forget that one was born.
Then there is my tattoo. Born out of so much pain, it is the physical reminder of emotional and mental scars. to ensure I can never forget.
I remember after a particularly painful end to a relationship, I accidentally burnt the top of my hand on an oven rack.
I remember how it felt, the hot stinging, and how much I welcomed it, because here was a pain that had a physical basis. Here was something I could source. I wished then that I could burn myself again. but knew that I shouldn't. I wished then the scar would stay with me forever. But it didn't. fortunately for me, the memory has remained even after the physical evidence faded.
We are a collection of scars. the physical and metaphysical tissue that mends and reforms itself to cope. The end result is a slightly different us. we are a collection of scars, and I'd never have myself mend completely. I am who I am because of the experiences I have had.
I am who I am due to the people I have met. More often because of those who have hurt me. It is only by letting people in that they can change you, and therefore it is only the people we let in who can hurt us.
I am a collection of scars. each an individual event, each its own story, but I am a collection, something that by itself means little. A collection, a dynamic, evolving collection.
Of scars.