“Within every freckle, scar, wrinkle, and crease will lie a memory of pain, or struggle, or happiness, or a fear that was triumphed. More than anything, they will contain memories of a life that was lived.”
Hands are beautiful.
More than any other part of the body.
They show just how worn our lives have made us. They reveal the struggles and triumphs of our story. Every scar, crease, or wrinkle holds a memory of our life; a fragment of our short time here.
Hands tell a story.
Not only the story of the things we have achieved and overcome, but also the story of whatever chronicles were left untold. They reveal a truth about the chances that were never taken, and the memories that never had an opportunity to be created.
Life tells us that there is beauty in perfection, but when I examine my hands down the road, I want to see imperfection. For those so-called flaws will be characteristics of my story. Each will reveal more about my life than any other part of me ever could.
Within every freckle, scar, wrinkle, and crease will lie a memory of pain, or struggle, or happiness, or a fear that was…
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