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Invisible Ink.

I wrote this a while ago, never posted it here, it’s just remained lurking in the middle of one of my computer files, affectionately known as ‘The Bubble’. But I found this video this morning, which I thought was beautiful, calming and urged me to hunt this out for posting…

I possess a whole medley of scars, not just one. Some through accident, some through blatant tomfoolery and others through choice and curiosity. I don’t look upon scars as ghastly disfigurations of the skin but as memories, lessons and moments of escape.

One of my first, and probably scar with the earliest memory, is the star shaped bruise on my foot  that I obtained when I was just a pup. At the tender age of never-thinking-things-through-and-three-quarters, I  decided it was a good idea to try climbing the derelict motorcycle that we had propped up in the back garden, only to have the motorcycle decided it would be much more fun to mount me instead, and leaving me a five-pointed off-colour reminder.

Scar two – above my eye – Again, I was a child and as a child it was not one of my brightest move to try and tightrope the park bench because it resulted in a completely graceless headfirst dive into the razor-edged gravel. I should probably view this scar as an act (one of many) of my own foolishness, but I only look upon this scar with fondness. At the time it happened I was with my Dad and one of my longest friends to date, and remember the look of pride on my Dad’s face when I didn’t cry as they laid me down on that hospital bed to stitch me up, while the adjacent boy, who was much older than me, thrashed around in screaming fit as they attempted to stitch a similar injury.

My knees are adorned with a variety of playground war wounds and, I hate to admit it, some intoxicated-while-wearing-too-high-heel wounds as well.

On the back of my left hand peeks a scar that was the result of me not removing my hand quick enough from a closing drawer. Darwin would be proud.

Then there are those I have inflicted upon myself. Despite there being more than I can count, I only ever remember one being done in sadness. That one hides across my stomach and is slowly but surely starting to fade.

Knife nicks, cigarette and lighter burns, scissor snips, lava lamp and kettle burns, even the occasional nail scratch were all done in calm. I have a curiosity in the healing process, I love how the body mends itself while holding onto a memory. Many, not all, but many of these act as landmarks in my life. This was the year I did this…or this was the moment that happened. I know people look at them with worry and concern but it doesn’t bother me as I know their true stories.

To me they are just inkless tattoos Stories written in invisible ink. I’ll admit, they’re not the greatest pieces of art but I appreciate their value none the less.

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