Scars.
It is foolish
to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion.
Those are Henry Longfellow's words. He's good with words.
My first escapism:
scars. My hands are covered with them. Scott, my younger brother,
and I didn't get along all that well growing up. I forced strange
fruit concoctions down his throat. He placed the laundry basket over
me and sat on it. I kicked his shins. Hard. He dug his nails into
my arms. And left scars.
Scott and I are
best friends now. Though I am three years older, I look up to him.
He is smart, mature, and always seems to be on top of things.
I
have scars on my heart too. I like the ones on my hands better.
Despite so, my marred heart has been ameliorated, sculpted from
life's mistakes, lessons, and experiences. It is with great time and
faith I have come to accept imperfection.
And
so, with that, I welcome you to my blog site: Escapsisms. It is a collection of
my thoughts, spilled out onto paper, and of scars, both ugly and
beautiful.
