I still have scars between my knuckles from falling off my bike when I was twelve. And you’d think that it would have healed by now, four years later, because everything heals with time, even the deepest of scars, everyone says that but god, that’s not true.
And I know this because when I was four I fell face first into a lake of blue water, dense and heavy—face first with my bike floating shallowly next to me, and when I got out, I felt cold (shivering), lost. I can’t ride my bike next to lakes anymore. Or rivers. Or beaches. I fear of falling face first, and not being able to find my way up to the surface, again.
And then there was that time when I was reading The Little Prince, and I remember reading it and thinking how absolutely charming the little illustrations were, colorful and bright, and so unbearably sad, in a way I didn’t understand. I was about eight, and at eight, I suddenly realized—or at least had a tinkling of realization—that there will always be things that we won’t understand, won’t ever fully grapple, won’t ever fully find our perfect fit in society, however perfect the fit may seem to be at that time. Because things become weathered, old, crinkled, and it will be time to move on. There’s always a time to move on. Even when you don’t want to. And that the best way to cope with leaving, is to draw as many pictures as you can, ask as many questions as you can, watch forty-eight sunsets a day, and hope, wish, that one day, you’ll come back.
The scars on my knuckles won’t change. Won’t ever disappear. I can wait an eternity and they will still be there, two bumps nestled between my pinkie and ring finger.
And I will never ever feel fully comfortable riding my bike next to crashing waves, calling me, crying for me to jump in, the water’s great, fall into my open arms and be swept away.
And though I may want to live in New York someday, I know that I will have to move. Change. There’s an entire world to see, god and how utterly depressing, do you think it is, actually think about it for one second, think about how so many people on this earth devote themselves to one corner of the world for their entire lives, think, and then realize that the entire world, is there, for us, to take and grab and experience, think about that for one second.
Your life is a flower; people will tear off your petals, life itself, will rip off an entire bud, and you will grow more, you will grow and flourish and heal yourself. But underneath your ever growing roses, daisies (whatever you choose to be) there will be rotting branches of half-grown limbs, and decaying half-torn flowers. You’ll avoid scissors, shears, sharp fingernails. But one day, a gardener will tame your overgrown leaves, branches, and the flowers that will bloom will be even greater, bigger, fuller.
Not every experience is bad. Not every scar results from tragedy. Don’t ever get so scared of loosing flowers, you forget to grow. But don’t ever believe anyone who says that everything heals overtime, even the deepest of scars, because god, that’s not true.