Scars. It feels too bitter to say out the word aloud. Yet they are so dear, the scars that make us ugly, force us to be stark naked at times, and hold back the scars. Everywhere, from the holistic heart, to that cavern of parochial numbness between our legs. Scars, they itch, and they bitch, and make us writhe in unsilent bars. Scars, the breaking up of monotonous pettiness, all etched out in a Jocular essence of abysmal lostness. Scars leave us humane, and ready for more. Is scar, then sex? Or is there a second degree burning of the left lobe which leaves us in love, which leaves us to be devoured up by scars. Scars, is it a monster, or just a neighbour-friendly pet ghost which makes you forget the dead puppy you once trampled away to the glory of the one-eyed green monster? We never know.
But do you want to know why scars visit us? A saint once had something to say regarding this, he never has found a bedmate since, and it has been ten thousand nights and ten thousand sins.
Love is a fire. It burns everyone. It disfigures everyone. It is the world's excuse for being ugly.
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