Misery is a morbid constant in this ever-evolving world.
Wars happen. People get scars. Legends die. Books end. And phone screens crack.
Humans, being quintessentially unequipped, puff their chests out when ambushed by such severe misfortune and proclaim a heroic firmness of resolve. But more often than not, they cave, curling up in a dark, obscure corner of the unforgiving world to bawl their heads, hearts and eyes out.
I am one of those puny, little humans.
Sometimes, overwhelmingly terrible things happen, in war and in college.
Scars can be as metaphoric as they are real. They are ugly gashes on skins and minds that distort and disfigure, serving as grotesquely vivid reminders of a pain that left a mark. It hurts to look at them initially but in time we learn to look beyond the obvious and focus on the stories.
“Oh, this cut on my cheek? I fell in the bathroom during a shower. Got three stitches.”
“That burn on my chest? Escaped a bombing in Syria. No biggie.”
“Mommy, I fell down and hurt my knee!”
The range is boundless. Sometimes, scars become mementos of adventures and sources of nostalgia for men and women who fondly recall the good ol’ days when they were alive. Stories evolve and soon enough, the scars, instead of representing failure or hurt, inspire pride and a sense of accomplishment.
Worlds were explored, lessons were learnt and someone lived to tell the tale.
They begin to symbolise honour and greatness. It’s beautiful.
I broke my phone screen and I cannot look at it without feeling a needle piercing my broken heart each time.
It shattered because I wasn’t careful enough while buying Uncle chips in the college canteen. In my non-thrilling life with hardly any perils and dangers, a broken phone screen is as close to a dramatic battle scar I get.
But The Story isn’t good enough to help me deal with this tragedy and its definitely not worthy of a nostalgic throwback.
Its just sad. I am frustratingly clumsy.
And thats about the beginning and end of my warrior legacy.