You may not believe me, but these jagged stripes across my chest are actually tell-tale scars. There was a time in which I could look at them with some amused distance, thinking they looked interesting, like crawling centipedes, or feebly stirring branches, or perhaps desolated railroads. Oh yes, I looked for comfort in all these silly metaphors, for shouldn’t I be grateful that my body, though damaged, is like a train still moving, still advancing?
But over the years I have grown prone to melancholy, the kind that makes me want to sleep in the afternoon and lay awake at night, listening to the city’s familiar cries, a melody of busy traffic, creaking insects and trees stirred by the storm. That’s when these scars, mimicking the abandoned railroads on my heart, start to whisper that I should set them free by letting someone run their gentle fingers over them.