“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

(Confucius)

“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.”

(Albert Einstein)

“Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.”

(John Lennon)

Scars are symbols of strife, written in blood, pain, and healing. They can be found anywhere on a person. Sometimes jagged, bulbous and heart-wrenching upon the eye. Other times they slide right by, disguised by healing, hair, tattoos or clothing. Sometimes they are even beautiful, adding to a person’s appeal, but all are catalysts of change.

The ones I had, the most severe that is, lasted for decades in my mind, whereas some healed in a month or two. This wonderful ability to heal is a coverup though, because scars mark us. Sometimes skin deep, sometimes so deeply that even the barest mention of their presence can set your mood for days. It is not their appearance that marks a scar’s severity; It is their lingering effect on one’s psyche.

I contemplated the half-dollar sized scar on my belly; The one that brought with it a resurgence of memories from a life of peaceful retirement to this place I stood now. I though back to where it all started, and as my thoughts drifted, I realized I had to tell someone. Something had to remain after I passed, if that was at all possible.

My scars were a pathway to those memories. Just like Cuneiform symbols of the most basic script that encompassed my entire body. Recording my many deeds and cataloging them in all their gory detail. Perhaps these marks, these reflections were the last remnants of my humanity. I don’t know why I felt this maudlin, this tragic, but for some reason I felt the need to let others know what we were fighting for and where it all began.