Reading thru Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood. I'm practically as disinterested as Toru Watanabe... oh well...
Got me thinking abt... well... stuff. Nowadays seems to find it hard to express myself properly. Or rather, thots that came in little streams or great torrents all disappeared into the air, nvr to reappear again.

Scars... everybody has them, all of us gotta live with them (or bloody well learn how to if U haven already) & their freakin' side-effects. Can just envision me opening my chest to see all those herring-bone stitches, backstitches, all along the seams of that pumping machine, even along my arteries... each stitch deeply etched & taking a painstakingly long time to remove. & I gotta remove them at the right time cos if I dont, I'll bleed myself to death, cry myself to sleep. & when I finally do get rid of them all, it's like a sudden sense of revelation one feel. That carefree feeling? Seems foreign but yeah, I do get them... sometimes.

Then I'd look at the holes left by those stitches... all little tiny, minute pores that u cant see but still know they're there. How to wave them away when u can feel their presence? Cloaking them is no use, I tried. Live with them, I say.

Guess some people have more scars than others? Same shit, different day for me; more shit, different day for them.... Was looking at a recent scenario... & I wondered if I'm living thru another's scars... cos they seem more like wounds to me... This person seems to be either picking at his stitches or having trouble mending himself back. Battered soul, is he? I dun noe...
Thou I wished to God that I could somehow, provide a balm for those wounds.
But sometimes, issues are to be resolved by oneself... & oneself only.
So correct me if I'm wrong.