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When I was a kid, I fell in my cousin’s garage while we were playing around. It bled like anything and as any kid would do I cried like a bitch until the blood stopped gushing out. Until now there’s a mark from that event that still hasn’t faded away.

Another time when I was a kid, I burnt myself by accidentally resting my arm on a freshly used portable stove. It hurt like hell, and I cried as my mom put my arm under freezing cold water. And yeah, until now the burn is slightly darker than my flesh, a battle wound from that day in Davao.

Sometimes the scars remain as a reminder of things we should or shouldn’t do – watch your step a little more, don’t play with fire, those kinds of things. The same goes for emotional scars, really – be a little more careful with your heart, learn not to expect, shit like that. We need those emotional and physical scars, just to tell us not to make the same old mistakes.

As much as scars remind us these things so we feel better though, sometimes they remind us of things that we’d really rather forget. I mean, sometimes we can’t help but nitpick at the scars, rub our fingers over them until they bleed open again. They bother us; they’re a physical reminder that we did get hurt. That scar reminds us sometimes of the pain that we experience when we get it the first time, and it isn’t any less painful when we nitpick at them and the scar is re-opened. Why can’t we learn to keep our hands put? Why can’t we remember that the more we pick at them, the more they won’t seem to heal?

Why is it so easy for us to remember and so hard for us to forget? Why can’t we all just get over it and keep walking on?

Why do we make things even more difficult for ourselves, when we know that in the end things could’ve been much simpler if we behaved and left those scars alone?