Scars. There’s something about them. They’re always there, even if you consciously choose to ignore them. They are right there, where you left them, before you chose to let go of the memories of what caused the scars.
They remain. They’re permanent. And they’ll live as long as you do. No matter what you try to do to make them vanish, no matter how much you succeed, they’re going to remain in that dark corner until some day when you’re sitting alone, pondering about all that you are, and all that you could have been.
Just when that right moment comes, the pain that was held in the dips and valleys of your scars slowly start seeping into your skin. Seeking the blood that flows through your veins. Quickly spreading to every crevice, corner and crack of your body until it numbs you. Until your carefully constructed life starts to crumble. Until you can’t recognise who you are anymore. Your mind transcends all the layers of reality that you created to cover the scars and goes back to that single moment that caused it all. With striking clarity, you feel the darkness settle around you. Thick and heavy, suffocating you, until you can barely breathe. You lose consciousness. You can’t tell whether you’re there or here. Everybody around you seems to be moving, but you are still grappling to get a sense of what happened.
Suddenly, life sucks the breath out of you and pulls you back to your physical world. And you casually get back to building more layers, adding details, boxing up and storing away memories to sift through later. Anything to keep the scars as hidden as possible.