I recently had a mole removed.
Theoretically, it's preparation for a new tattoo, a chest piece I've been planning for a few months, but am nowhere near being able to afford. I have a good idea, but my lack of funds, and the poor management skills with what little I can scrape together indicates that it might be a long ways off. In any case, those were my thoughts going in to get this bugger scraped off.
It's been since August. There is skin over it, but it most resembles Freddy Kreuger's face, an ugly thing like uncooked bacon set into a hole in my chest. It shines slightly when the light hits it correctly, and I hide it as much as I possibly can.
Right now, all of that is going on, but when it's healed, if I'm lucky, maybe the tattoo will work around this scar. If I'm unlucky, the scar will ruin everything for a long time, and nothing can be placed over it.
Writing right now is very similar to this. I've had writer's block for months and, at the same time, an increase in my own depression. It's something that I've dealt with for a while now, and as many of you know, I was getting better. But this was deeper than it had been in a while.
Consider that the scarring.
I'm working through the depression right now, in a variety of ways that aren't really important to this poorly chosen, over-extended metaphor. What is important is that my writing, and my creativity, are on the rise again. Something has to change sometimes. A scar forms over the bad things, and becomes a harder, better part of you. And I'm at a moment of transformation. I need to change. The world is strange.
I want to be strange.