When somebody asks me to describe myself, I instantly look down at my creased and contorted palms. Uncertainty taking hold of me, like hands around my throat. My nails trace the deep crevices as my fingers twist the delicate rings upon them, noticing as I do so, a deep welt where my skin has molded around the jewellery, imprinting it into memory like a mattress to a body.
This prompts me to inspect my hands rigorously, the bare, flushed skin calling out for my attention. Seldom do I compliment my hands with a glance, whilst they furiously construct my world around me. A further look confirms my ignorance, as I notice a thick, short scar, between my thumb and wrist. The purple skin flashes menacingly at me, challenging a memory of the incident within, to come forward and declare itself. It doesn't and once again my eyes are roaming over long, thin fingers that curl automatically like a piece of paper subsiding to an intense heat.
A mole sits comfortably on my wrist, guarding the entrance to my palm. It stains the skin over my veins, marking the spot where my blood flows a brilliant red beneath the thin layers. It is not alone, for many more swarm around my wrists. A constellation as rich and unique as the stars. A close look will reveal a formation, which will warp and change for every eye.
Thus, the question of, who am I? is easily answered, without hesitation or deliberation. The answer sits nestled in my hands and body, upon every blemish and natural curve. My story is highlighted by every silver scar that lies crisp white against my stretched skin, through every crack in my dry palms that is eager to feast thirstily on work and adventure, on all the hairs that coat my body and react sensitively and instinctively in ways that my mind fails me. My story is encompassed within my body, which reads like a book that is close to one's heart.
Your body is a book that you unwittingly write. Every scratch representing a flourish of a pen's nib to the page, the ink flowing like blood, leaving an everlasting impression. In youth your body stands strong, with a spine rigid like a fresh hardback copy. However, with age the cover begins to fade and naturally the spine crumbles and the grey pages fray. Your body contorts and curves, curling like the dog-eared pages of your favourite novel. Each page is a memory, a deep and descriptive transcript of your defining moments. This encompasses your wounds, both physical and mental as the stretchmarks snake around the thighs and your cheeks flush an awkward red as you recount an embarrassing time from your past.
We are responsible for creating ourselves, for bringing our stories to life. It is within us to imprint upon the minds of those that come into contact with us. Our bodies animate our journey and invite people in to the adventure, an adventure that would be quite lonely without our unique spirit which is stamped across our skin, glowing powerfully, like a lighthouse beckoning sailors in to shore.
Therefore, do not waste one precious moment in creating your story. Brand your body with the title, a title that will entice people to open the cover and delve deeper. Make yourself a bestseller by advertising your adventures which are prominently displayed within every scar, bruise and delicate blemish. Nobody can be perfect and nobody should want to be, remember that as you describe yourself.