Inscription
August 19, 2017

Scarring from the summer is a self-held habit:
some, surgical pits where the succeeding effects secrete misplacement and superfluous removal,
others, memories of mauling victories-
most, retroactively beloved mistakes.
With the inebriation of circumnavigating, sanctioned events as my surrounding space,
physicality is pesterous enough to prevent dissociation,
so I willingly surrender to these improvised stories sculpted into my skin-
representative enough to be valued and brandished more than any tattoo.
Resentfully retaining the tendency to forget progression, and remember the perpetually repeating relapses, makes it a must to chronologically map out occurrences, rubbed raw into organic material if need be:
terrains from mishaps to momentous matters.
The immediately accessible, textured tales read of recency and lasting impact-
an omnisciently announced biography written by the outdoors: 
the original oracle.
More descriptive than braille,
I refer to these honest reminders when I can’t seem to realize reality,
such as lacking the recollection of appealing to a prestigious institution to
transcendently transfer,
as I currently maintain two academic email addresses:
one so horribly hoarded, I still worry over the university emergency notifications advising to avoid Killam Ave.
But have I not properly distanced myself?
Must not’ve, for the two student IDs in my wallet verify this is a mistake-
there must be another Matthew Kemper.
Excellence may be exemplified in all forms, as extreme as geographical relocation, 
acceptance will not be visually persuaded.
I require the sternest of puncturing motivation.
Welcoming arms and congratulatory oration will not suffice,
for upon conclusion, when I’m asked if I have any questions,
and I ponder:
wisdom is what?
The answer better not be grants of admission, tools, or alien scripts of someone else’s speech-
nothing to dependency, but the liberation against restriction that allows for room to grow, free from irritation.
Age induces wealth and such knowledge costs as little as minor scabbing.
However, within interactive mediums, where the comparison between what one actively takes away and what gets achingly taken away is considered,
I must remain wary of becoming my own treason by way of ruining from within or submitting to the external frictional consumption which forms permanent paths;
all the while, continually trusting that each is paved with passion 
and not pushed to any side by the false perception of minds. 
I sit at a writer’s desk for a reason.
Why not rejoice where I’ve been led to reside?
And to the watchful eyes that see my engraved epics as unsightly,
I unapologetically state that my storyteller is beyond sight,
so I, too, have settled into greater senses because if all my scars were in the same, simple spot,
how many lessons would I have learned?
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