I was thinking about my acne scars today. How I wash my face religiously, how I exfoliate and apply “medically-proven-to-work” creams, how I take care not to bunch up oily hair around my face, yet the scars stay there, tiny, grumpy, dark splotches.
I have to remember that too often I let the world tell me what is beautiful; I forget that I have a choice. My scars aren’t as elegant as freckles or birthmarks, but they’re there. I might as well try to make peace with them—and so, I spend the afternoon looking at star charts and constellation patterns. The scars around my right eye resemble an elongated Orion constellation. The ones around my left eye are strikingly close to Puppis. The ones dotting my jawline look like Pisces from a certain angle.
Perhaps it takes a pinch of madness to find beauty in conventionally ugly things. Or perhaps it’s simply a different way of looking at the world, a spark that reimagines life as an upturned sketch, a lone flower, a faded receipt—even constellations on skin.