“Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as a secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.”
I have a scar. Well, I have several scars, some psychological and some flesh scars. When I was 2, I managed to pull a kettle of boiling water onto myself leaving a nasty memory of what pain felt like and a permanent scar of what was and what was to come.
Growing up, I hated the scald mark that disfigured me. I felt it was a blotch that would affect my right to happiness, that, god forbid, I would be deemed, imperfect. But that’s when I believed that on your pathway of life, pretty parcels of tried and tested, portions of life, were handed out. While the cleverer people choose those options, my imperfect self, idly choose the pick n’ mix. There is a knack to making sense of this mixed up buffet of choice, however, there are no rules and no guidelines.
Whether its vacuuming your vacuum cleaner, methodically eating a raspberry jam sandwich, every day or always looking under your car before getting in, we all have our tics or oddities that help make us feel complete. Even allowing all those ‘imperfect’ souls into your gleaming existence, can help make you feel more accomplished.
I allow ‘strange’ into my life, as I believe, you must let the external strange seep in, to allow the internal crazy to come out. Like osmosis, helping create a peaceful equilibrium. I’m not crazy I just understand I have a little bit in me. For all the mistakes made during the tumultuous growing up years, the bad choices taken from that ill-defined pick n’ mix, I can’t begrudge myself the happiness I feel now for understanding myself and liking who I have become. The conventional would never suit, and if that had been chosen, my life would be very different but that story will never be told.
Just for a reminder on how fantastic The Doors were and a quick nod to the late, Jim Morrison .... People are strange