My grandpa was a collector of sorts. The thing he collected most was airplanes. He would buy neglected planes, take them apart, put them back together, and then sell them. All but one of the planes are gone, but one thing still hanging around is the very rusty Kaiser Manhattan. Looking at it one wouldn’t think too much about it. The tires are flat and deteriorating, the windows are cracked, the chrome is tarnished, and you’d be hard pressed to find a single square inch that isn’t rusted. For all it’s flaws, it is still, relatively speaking, in one piece, though it would take an act of God to make it drive again. Despite all that, there is an undeniable beauty in the rust, the decay, and the patterns made as nature tries to reclaim the land on which it sits. Humans have developed an aptitude for judging things and people by the accumulation of their shortcomings, and altogether fail to see the beauty in the scars, flaws, and imperfections of both everyday items, as well as our fellow man.
A scar does not form on the dying, A scar means I survived.