I Don't Really Know How I Feel About Scars And Random Musing

My gaze accidently fell on myself--my arms, hands, fingers-- and all see are scars. Scars of self harm, scratches from when rubbed against something sharp, paper cuts, rosy blemishes from when I burnt myself as I play with fire, everything I've bagged over the years and pasted on this skin of mine. The next time somebody asks me about my hobby, I'll tell them it's collecting scars. I wonder what people think of me when their eyes fall of these medals, my badges, on my skin scalps. Do they ever think of what could have possibly occured to me that my tissues altered themselves and the bruises made me their home forever, as if my epithelia is stubborn? Or is it my fault, and they think of me as a reckless negligent? The most defining truth about scar tissues is how constant they are. It embodies the kind of uniformity that doesn't even allow the process of aging or growing hair or forming pores. It's a behavior too self-centred but indistinctive. It's also too self-seeking, too controlling which is a lot like me. Almost feels like everything that hurts me in any way wishes to leave an engraved mark and bestow me with a contsant reminder so much that it chooses to unsoundly assemble itself on my body and there's nothing I can do about this lingering of past in my today.

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