What do you think of scars? What do they truly represent? A war or a curse? Pain or happiness? Are scars attractive? What about those who have unrecognizable faces because of the scars? They put up a mask because you’re afraid of them. Do you see your scars? Many of us are damaged, but we don’t see our bodies next to another, always looking at someone else’s skin. There’s always someone else’s pain easier to handle. It’s easier to see it until the turn comes to yourself. Not only do I write about scars on the skin, but it’s also just a surface because the ocean is also blue until you dive into infinity, it becomes black, you get lost. We cut our memories, unconscious, carving initials in hearts, pumping poisonous blood. We receive scars, and we don’t even know why they’re here, we own them, but we don’t remember the reasons. It’s not crazy to say that it’s art, is it? Scars are art, you have to love them, even when they’re intentional. The scar lingers, but the man moves on. Reviving the peculiar moments, a scar doesn’t give up on its own existence. Yes, scars are incredible art. Various objects make various scars, like the various fights and self-defense, leave great traces. We hide them under the clothes, we hide them under the skin until someone meets us. Until someone looks through them. They can be dark and bright, it depends, but they can’t be as painful as during healing and formation. It’s their beauty. We pass by hand and feel them, the reactions are different. We know that the wound heals when the skin performs self-healing after the injury inflicted on it, intentionally or not, from some other procedures or perceptions that can also cut the tissue that becomes nothing but the dead, and in its dying, it turns into an artistic expression of one or more emotions. Just as the protective barrier against the outer environment forms in the undamaged skin, a man also needs to make boundaries and barriers to avoid injuries. Because of that, we’re looking at our scars in a twisted and altered way, and perhaps, sometimes, one of us sees them as the most beautiful evidence of overcoming what caused us to bleed, to pass fingertips on them, to feel every undefined pattern that reminds us of what we are, or maybe not. Disputable, right? When the barrier is damaged or removed, an orchestrated cascade of biochemical events begins in the repairing the damage. Isn’t that, somewhat scary to imagine, like the moving of inarticulate emotions, dead and alive, as a rough, dead tissue that’s been regenerated, but remains so beautiful and divine? Don’t you think that all of these cells are programmed to remove, rearrange, that they’re created to design a map on your body that is associated with every experience or event that has cut you in half or helped you to recover from an old wound? The former, such a lively and delicate tissue dies underneath the skin, around the internal organs, your bones’ core, and then on the surface. It hurts in the way you only know and pulls different triggers, asking you to wonder why these scars exist and do they have any meaning at all if, according to your part of the subconscious, what’s causing them is insignificant? This indicates a possible relationship of the cause – the effect between two factors, the factor of the overall content of what you accept and love, and what you’re embarrassed about and afraid to show, to yourself, to others. Under the touch, you feel something that causes you to shiver, and ask yourself the same questions again. You squeeze your eyes so hard, until the veins come out, only to stop looking at these strangely engraved beautiful scars, looking for a purpose that corresponds to a rational explanation. And your skin accumulates at the deepest level of the subcutaneous layer, isolating you from cold and heat. What does this remind you of? Why do you put protective shields, masks, bandages and wrap yourself up with the false acceptance of everything your scars reveal about you? We’re cut and half-dead, but we often don’t see the corner of our world where we live, and we breathe freely, where no one would see us, alone, when we allow ourselves to be there, to embrace our scars, dark or bright, to love them, to accept them because they are ours. Nothing more than that, can belong us to like them. No one can take them, no one can erase them, they can camouflage, but they can’t disappear. They shield us when we fight to cloud them, from embarrassment, fear, or struggles with oneself. So, the man continues to walk and fight, he destroys everything in front of him, but for a long time, he carries the ruins inside him that hide the stories of each previous, present and future scar.