There was a mark on my right hand just near the elbow, underside, where my skin is hairless. I sit on the cafe table at the bookshop and roll over my sleeves, to check whether, it is still there or long lost?
I heal fast.
With a certain relief I see that the scar is still there. Just a spec of dark brown on my light brown. It will fade away I guess, it will take time, but I pray it stays. It will be then just like the scar on my left elbow that looks like a stitch, but it isn't. The scar makes me smile. An iron rod made it.
I was a kid then, I was looking up, counting stars, searching for constellation, when I fell, this thin iron rod from a basket at a shop dug in my flesh. I tried to get away from it and made it drag in my flesh for an inch before I pulled my hands off it. I didn't cry, my parents cried a bit. I am happy that the scar stayed. It makes me remember that no matter where I am, how firmly grounded I am, I am a wanderer at heart. I will remain and my wandering spirit lives in my scar.
This scar on my right hand is a burn mark. No, I didn't burn myself by accident. It was not self inflicted if we talk about this physical realm. If you take me to other dimension where the rules of physics are altered, where there is no physical realm then, first; the wound just was self inflicted by someone standing on the other side of the mirror, but isn't it me already there? Second, my physical frame will cease to exist. The scar will cease to exist, it will just be then a ripple in my glass soul. Yes, throw a stone with all your heart and soul on this glass and it will not break. It will create a ripple in the soul.
My body and being had already forgotten by that time that there is any soul at all. You see, this burn, was the cause of the ripple in my soul. I just got awakened, and the first thing my soul saw was the Mirror. How can I then wish the scar to vanish? The ripples at times becomes waves. Have you seen waves in the moonlight? They are the truest of all deceits yet the most ignorant of truth. The soul here is an old one, the newness of this body stings. It pains. Its ill-framed and ill-timed and the soul here is patiently waiting for it's time.
The flower at my table is sitting pretty in contemplation with me. I do not know what it is thinking. May be I am overthinking. I have all of a sudden lost all sense of time and being. There is just this flower, who is untouched and pristine. It is so innocent that it looks unreal to me. Sitting opposite it is me, all scared, bruised and burning in the eternal fire of knowledge hell. At times knowing is a curse.This flower does not know that yet.
"I know it."
I look in surprise and search for the voice. I look down and realise its the flower speaking to me.
I must be going out of mind, I should stop brooding.
"No, you should not and no you are not out of your mind."
I look in awe and was dumbstruck.I was not under the influence of drugs, I never take one and yet I was hallucinating in broad daylight. I was incredulous. The flower was telepathic, well it should, it doesn't have ears or does it?
"Your scars are visible, for you they are beautiful. The same goes for me too, Each petal is a scar, pain and agony. Growing up is pain, Life is scared. It is beautiful because its scared. Life is beautiful because it has shades, darkness, sorrows, joys and myriad of emotions. Life is living in a desert and hoping that the mirage is true. Isn't it beautiful?"
I was still awestruck.
" 'The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..' did not John Milton say it? I have turned my scars into petals because they are beautiful. Real scars are not of body, there are no scars, these are just ripples in soul, as you said it. They make you feel that you have a soul."
I smiled, I was not dumbfounded anymore. I believed the flower, I now knew the reason why this flower, my very own dear flower was so beautiful and pristine. It was scared, It was snatched from the cradle of innocence and placed in this artificial vase. It was provided and taken care off, but then it wanted to be untouched and free. In her I saw my entrapment. The shackles. Each of her petals was the symbol of her scars, they never fade, they are there forever, even when the flower will wither and cease to exist, there will be the memory of petals. We all will know the flower for its petals. We all are known because of our scars, as happiness never makes a person, hardships make a human. We all see each other and how we are is just the cause and effect of the scars, the experiences, the sorrows. Yes, life is beautiful because we know that the sunrise will be worth all the cries spent in the dark
No, we never really heal.