Scars on your body are often associated with stories. Like the scar on my brother’s knee, it tells about the eleven failed attempts of riding a cycle. The scars on my friend’s toes is a witness to the fact that cutting nails with a knife is a bad idea, especially when drunk. The scar on Harry’s forehead tells the story of the ‘Boy who lived’. Like the scars on my wrist tell about my constant struggle with life. Over time, these scars stop hurting, they become a memory. All that remains of them is mark on your skin and a story.
But alas, it’s not so simple with the scars on the heart and soul. My friend is still uncomfortable of intimacy, though it has been years since she was assaulted. My brother still wakes up from sleep in cold sweat, as he gets nightmares and flashbacks from that one night. George could never produce a patronus after the death of Fred. My heart still sinks little when I pass the restaurant where we first met. We think that over time, we will heal. But all we do is cover up these scars and pretend that we have healed. But the truth is, the scar is still there; waiting for the moment when it will scrapped open. Scars like these have more to do with where we are going than from where we have been. Of course, it’s easier to speak about those odd scars on your toes than explain why you refuse to eat at that particular restaurant. After all, some scars run deeper than others.


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