A Breif foreward,
I am extremely drunk...

Scars are the bookmarks of life.
Whether mental, or physical,
we will carry them without option, looking back upon moments in time.
Early on, especially with the first few, we wonder why we do this,
but just like a bookmark in text, it is because this passage is memorable.
It was a moment when things didnt add up, things went bad,
things didnt make sense and sense is something we all strive to unearth.

The scars on mind disappear the moment I ponder their relavence
until it is ingrained within me and all I could absorb from that moment in time
has been discovered. These, I find, are easier. I can isolate it all in myself
and discover what was going on from all possible angles. It takes longer than I'd
make it seem.

The scars on my body carry on, shrinking every year, reminding me that
forever I will keep some mistakes with me, that some decisions that I make
I will forever carry with me, a parrallel to the decisions that I've made affecting others.

There is nothing I will ever have that doesn't exist in someone else.
Think about that for a moment.

One day I, you, and everyone will die and rot.
But the memories and experiences we've shared or instilled in others lives on.
This is what life is about.

This is why I wear my scars with pride.
The scars in my mind that cause dysfunction while being social,
I let them be free on the unknowing
The scars in my body that cause the unknowing pain when first seen,
I show as if we all had them since birth.
I know in my heart that I have nothing to show but what I've done.
Do unto others as you'd have them do unto you.


Earlier today, or should I say tonight,
someone whom I care fore, someone who I've unwittingly hurt
decided to pay me back.
This was not revenge or scorn, this was justice.

A jagged topaz axe was swung at my head without me knowing.
It rested in my ignorant skull for over two whole days.
Imbedded in my mind was this clever edge, its existince revealed to me
more and more though each passing hour.
At sometime during my second slumber,
when my resistance to its frequency was lowest,
as I was subdued by the quiet cry of this weapon,
the impact it caused upon me was finally announced.
I saw the malice it intended, and that which had brought it upon me.
Earlier tonight she talked to me as if it had already been removed.
I had not told her the truth, for she was trying to dress my wounds.
She hopes I heal from the injury she and I both inflicted.
I will recover, but only to face a new dilemma...

As she thought her golden cleaver was gone, so it was.
Only at the moment that she truly made me aware of it, was it made absent.
And so I am left pondering:
In who's hand does this weapon lie?
Upon me, the next swing shall surely be a deathblow.
From me, the next swing would likely have the same intent.
The only conclusion I can arrive that gives some, if not a meager amount of,
hope at all for salvaging the future would be for travel.
Both of us, no matter how wounded, to a citadel of patience
where we will both be disarmed and taught of eachother's motives.

They say ignorance is bliss,
they say knowledge is power,
They never told me that power would make me unhappy.
Lately I find that weakness makes me unhappy, however.

I can smile or I can be strong.
How am I supposed to feel when you tell me I'm stong and then smile?
How can I in good faith smile for weakness?
Will I ever know a coexistence between magic and reason?

Only time will tell...