“…when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure.” (Jane Austen)
Scars are but evidence of life. Evidence of choices to be learned from, evidence of wounds, wounds inflicted by memories. Memories are like bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces. Sometimes the scars remind you that you survived; sometimes they tell you that you have healed. Scars fade with time. And the ones that never go away, well, they build character, maturity, and caution.
Memories leave a light in the eyes, just as plain as scars. Versification of one such estranged and dyspnoeic moment, when painful memories and a torturous migraine decided to waltz in unison, presented in the form of a set of Haikus and two poignant melodies:
The world rests in the night. Trees, mountains, fields and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure. Each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark. Darkness is the ancient womb. Night-time is womb-time. Our souls come out to play with nightfall. The darkness absolves everything; the struggle for identity and impression fades away.
But for some, night-time is the time for a surreal adventure, it is the moment of surrender to the darkest dreams, it is the hallway to purge the thoughts of a life known long before.
A poem portraying a sleepwalker’s journey through the portals and vaults of his past life: