I was sitting at the barber shop today, waiting for my turn on the chair. With little or nothing to do, I started staring at the floor, eager to avoid conversation with some random acquaintances that one is bound to meet having lived in the same locality for more than a decade and a half. It was one of the rare days that I'd actually bothered to venture out in my shorts so a stare directed towards the ground, inevitably drew my attention to my legs. (For mercy's sake, I will spare you the description of my moderately hairy, slightly slender legs...wait...ok, damage done...)
For those who have known me for ages, you know how I have been prone to diving around on the field, sometimes even on tarred basketball courts and occasionally of course, my union with mother earth has been accidental. All these meetings with the ground at our feet, have of course, led to a few abrasions and the like and my knees are pretty much a time map of the misadventures of my past.
But then, I'm not the only one who's had their share of abrasive stories, am I? Yet, of all the people, I seem to wear my scars rather pronounced. The injuries have long healed but somehow, the scars have never gone...no matter how trivial the injury. Which brought me to think, my scars pretty much summarize who I am. I seem to enjoy what I'm doing a lot and don't mind getting hurt in the process but somehow, I seem to hold on to every little memory as a reminder of where I've been, what I've done. Better than getting tattoos to mark your adventures, wouldn't you say?
Then again, this does have it's downsides...after all, some scars should heal without a trace...not good to carry 'em around, is it? I may not be vindictive and I might even forgive easily but I definitely don't forget.... Ah well, win some, lose some!