I am still waiting for the bruise to heal from when you left, so I can finally decorate the scars they leave behind. If there is one thing I have learned to treasure, it is the scars from every laugh and fight I stood in the ring for. See, the thing about scars is they sing beautiful songs and tell the best folk stories. They make sure that everything that once mattered remains a part of who we are. They keep the past alive in their unique way.
So, on days I am reminded that I am more than a tad short of perfect and of the many hurdles I have jumped over since my first cry, I try to remember the stories from every scar I can get my hands on. I replay the memory of every cry and every misfortune my sleepy eyes took me through. All I ever find at the end of every scar is a story that made me stronger. An experience that laid the bricks to create the foundations of everything I am — both the good and the not so great. I find the story that taught me that fire is beautiful, but it will burn you if you step to it. At the end of every scar, I am reminded that I am fire. I am the song that my forefathers sang and the story my grandmother swore on till her last breath. That is the beautiful thing about scars. They have voices that echo more than a thousand miles. Voices that tell your story in fewer words than your heart could ever.
But I am learning that fire is not all that it is made up to be, and neither is a loud voice when it is covered up. So, what is the point of being heard or seen when you can barely hear or see yourself under the covers? As significant as they are, scars are sometimes not as valued as they should, and we tend to cover up their heroism; for fear that the world will not understand. Perhaps we do not understand. Maybe we fail to realize that every scar is a badge of honour that retells us we made it. All of them are the reminder that if we are still here tomorrow, we are more potent than the bruises that have not yet healed.
