One day I woke up, I was naked and I saw that I had too many scars.
To each scar was attached an episode of my life and, being a scar, a painful one at that.
Of course, but…
If each mark on my skin is indelibly linked to a specific memory of a moment in my life when that scar occurred, then, in a way, it can be considered as a sort of a diary or rather, like a personal code, a most intimate language.
Like a chord that sets up a song right away, a word reminiscent of a poem or a novel, a certain fragrance that makes you stop in the middle of the street and think about the last time you smelled it off that one girl.
I was always terrified about losing all my memories. They just so easily melt, dissolve and vanish like a puff of smoke on a foggy day.
Then, at some stage, I realized that even the ones that stay with me are, very likely, altered and rearranged according to my fancy.
Memories are neither monuments, nor tombs. They are alive. They pulse and breathe. Just like me. And if the memory changes, the scar changes too.
In the end, scars, words, odours and sounds might as well be fanciful tools to bring forth surprising and unexpected stories.