Sitting in my bed I happened upon an old childhood scar I got while doing some real daredevil-like things. I remember vividly my brother, some other kid, and myself riding our bikes at high speeds down the hill which was our street, making a sharp right turn into our driveway and plowing straight into the back yard, which was covered in dead leaves and surrounded by trees. The leaves made steering near impossible and their was a fun air that came with that loss of control. We literally would fall off the bike and roll and slide and be covered in dirt and muck laughing and laying beside our noble steeds. We tried to stabilize ourselves to see how long one could go before we inevitably spun out. We made a game of it. We did it three times, realizing by the second time of how dangerous it was. "Once more than we have to stop." And once more we did it and the last time I wiped out the worst of all of the times; and I remember standing up and looking down and their being a giant quarter shaped hole in my jeans. "woooaaahh." was all that escaped me. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize that the bike handle--which was missing the rubber grip on it's end-- had stabbed me on my way down. Still, after a split second of shock and amazement, we high-fived and laughs about how I could have died.
It wasn't until I made it into the house that I realized I was bleeding. As with other stupid things I did in my childhood I didn't come right out and tell my parents. You see, the child mind is quite the interesting thing. You don't worry about possible infection or tetanus or death. No, you think about that lecture and/or spanking you're gonna get for tearing a pair of perfectly good jeans. I can't remember the story after that. I'm sure my parents had to have found out from me limping or even worse an article of clothing with a giant bloody hole in it inside of the kitchen trash can. What I do know is I have a story for the mark it left. For years It was very visible and I got used to it. Then it just became background. A slightly darker splotched that stretched as I grew older into nothing but a passing memory. I probably have at least five or six more stories like this one. A story of how I did something or something happened to me, and either I was amazed at the awesomeness of it all, or ruined by it. Most of my scars hurt and I cried about them. But a few of the stories, well, are just so amazingly cool, The tomboy in me is thinking, "Wicked!"
I wonder if that is life.
A living breathing thing made up of little marks and scratches to deep puncture wounds and stitches; things that negatively affect us.... Are their any positive marks?
Yes, we just over look them...I am covered with beauty marks. Little cute dots that formed over the years. One of them is near a spot that my dad has a little dot too, on our hands. I don't remember the exact story about how they formed or when. It happened over such a long period of time...for the most part you usually just suddenly noticed it. However, I do remember not having them, then having them. I feel that happy memories are like that as well.
Maybe it's just me, but I tend to dwell on the sad things more. Remember really terrible things, little emotional scars... But I also know their are beauty marks mixed in there.
I don't know, I just want to get to a place in my life, where I am one with the world. Nirvana. I want to see all the little beauty marks and smile, regardless of how many scars I have. I want to get to a point where my focus is no longer on the dark blotches on my knees from tripping while running on pavement. No, I want to be able to look pass them, and see that little dot on my nose and know that the world is beautiful, that I am beautiful, and it will all be okay.
