Scars

Whenever I do not know what to write about, I start typing a simple sentence: I do not know what to write today. After my fingers get in the motion I finally find something that I want to type about and backspace over my starter sentence. And while after procrastinating finding a topic I now have one, but I can’t write about it here—it is inappropriate to share everything with the internet in a time when a Facebook post can get you fired from a job.

I will say this:

People do stupid stuff all of the time. When we hurt others the most when we ourselves are hurting. People hurt those they love. I’ve done it. If you haven’t, just give it some time, it will happen. Sticky situations are just sticky. Time heals all wounds, but the scars are forever. Granted, I’ve learned to like some of my scars. (I have this one on my knee that I do not remember acquiring, but it is huge and feels different from the rest of my skin.) Some scars fade into the background so well that you can barely find them anymore; you have to be looking for them to find them. Other scars disappear from sight all together, though they’re still there. I’m not sure why we get scars, why our skin does not simply recreate the same skin texture we’re born with. Maybe the scars stay to remind us that the pain we once felt actually existed, to remind us that pain does exist but eventually ends. My scars are every bit apart of me as the undamaged parts and I don’t mind them. They give me something to ponder over when I get to bored.

I suppose all of that is easier to say when the wounds have healed into scars and the pain can no longer be felt.