I really don't know where I'm going with this.. but... just read and tell me what you think. Or if you have any idea how I should develop this. I want to make connection between my scars and my mistakes and how I've learned to view mistakes as a reminder to become better, not as something that's holding me down. I don't know how to tie that in though.. Any idea?
A girl stands, scars running in colliding train tracks on her body, reminiscing pain at all angles. Scars of various sizes, diverse shapes, and special hues musing over stories embedded deep under the pores. I was born with Atopic Syndrome, an allergic hypersensitivity that affects part of body not directly in contact with the allergen, but the syndrome itself isn't the only problem; I'm enveloped by layers of skin too stubborn to fully heal itself, jeering at doctors who too question my anomalous skin condition. When I'm numb with dreams at night, the allergen incognito coaxes me into blemishing my skin until my skin has been peeled away by my own nails and hands. The frustrated mother will once again scold me for doing so at sunrise and I will once again blame the anonymous villain under my breath.
"You're going to loose your fiancé when your in-laws discover your scars," my mother would tease. In all seriousness, however, her joke is the blunt reality. Scars carry negative reputations and often fool strangers to envisage negative situations. But despite others' opinions, to me personally, every cut in my life has left me scarred but scarred for good. My skin's memory capacity surpasses that of my brain. My browned knee narrates the first failure I encountered only one year into the world as I attempted to stumble across the room on my unripe femur. My slightly dented nose at close inspection anecdotes the first dark-tag I played, in which I exploded my nose blood vessel upon crashing into a wooden podium even before I turned five. All memories that would have flew past my eyes if they hadn't offered a souvenir on my skin.
I've made many mistakes within the first eighteen years of my life. Mistakes of various sizes, diverse shapes, and special hues. Perhaps my ideal is different because of the burden of scars that I've dragged around on my chain all my life, but I've naturally grown accustom to the unyielding nature within me that has develop my concept of life that begs to differ the conventional idea that mistakes and regrets should be forgotten. Upon confronting a problematic scenario, a friend would say, "It's O.K. Just forget about it and move on," when nothing in life can possibly be moved on. While we blindly try so hard to obliterate the dark times of our lives, we fail to realize that both the ups and downs make us who we are individually. Erasing any of it is to erase a chance to recover from the mistake and avoid it the next time around. It doesn't matter if my mother chugs ointment down the ripped crease of my skin or if I quietly lullaby myself to sleep because the cut will join the myriad of scars and the problem, stacks of unwanted history. At the end of the day, it will remain right where it was initially, smiling at me. James Joyce once said "A man's errors are his portals of discovery." My scars have been my portals of discovery and my personalized healing mechanism. I appreciate every scar on my body and every fall in my journey of life as an inspiration to become someone better. They have never shackled me down but rather ascended me to never carve the same scar again and to never stumble on the same road again. To study history is to learn to never repeat the same mistakes again. Certainly, I get a paper cut once in a while and clumsily gash myself against the chair leg every now and then, but they are new openings to develop me into someone stronger, scarred for the better.
A girl stands, scars running in colliding train tracks on her body, reminiscing pain at all angles. Scars of various sizes, diverse shapes, and special hues musing over stories embedded deep under the pores. I was born with Atopic Syndrome, an allergic hypersensitivity that affects part of body not directly in contact with the allergen, but the syndrome itself isn't the only problem; I'm enveloped by layers of skin too stubborn to fully heal itself, jeering at doctors who too question my anomalous skin condition. When I'm numb with dreams at night, the allergen incognito coaxes me into blemishing my skin until my skin has been peeled away by my own nails and hands. The frustrated mother will once again scold me for doing so at sunrise and I will once again blame the anonymous villain under my breath.
"You're going to loose your fiancé when your in-laws discover your scars," my mother would tease. In all seriousness, however, her joke is the blunt reality. Scars carry negative reputations and often fool strangers to envisage negative situations. But despite others' opinions, to me personally, every cut in my life has left me scarred but scarred for good. My skin's memory capacity surpasses that of my brain. My browned knee narrates the first failure I encountered only one year into the world as I attempted to stumble across the room on my unripe femur. My slightly dented nose at close inspection anecdotes the first dark-tag I played, in which I exploded my nose blood vessel upon crashing into a wooden podium even before I turned five. All memories that would have flew past my eyes if they hadn't offered a souvenir on my skin.
I've made many mistakes within the first eighteen years of my life. Mistakes of various sizes, diverse shapes, and special hues. Perhaps my ideal is different because of the burden of scars that I've dragged around on my chain all my life, but I've naturally grown accustom to the unyielding nature within me that has develop my concept of life that begs to differ the conventional idea that mistakes and regrets should be forgotten. Upon confronting a problematic scenario, a friend would say, "It's O.K. Just forget about it and move on," when nothing in life can possibly be moved on. While we blindly try so hard to obliterate the dark times of our lives, we fail to realize that both the ups and downs make us who we are individually. Erasing any of it is to erase a chance to recover from the mistake and avoid it the next time around. It doesn't matter if my mother chugs ointment down the ripped crease of my skin or if I quietly lullaby myself to sleep because the cut will join the myriad of scars and the problem, stacks of unwanted history. At the end of the day, it will remain right where it was initially, smiling at me. James Joyce once said "A man's errors are his portals of discovery." My scars have been my portals of discovery and my personalized healing mechanism. I appreciate every scar on my body and every fall in my journey of life as an inspiration to become someone better. They have never shackled me down but rather ascended me to never carve the same scar again and to never stumble on the same road again. To study history is to learn to never repeat the same mistakes again. Certainly, I get a paper cut once in a while and clumsily gash myself against the chair leg every now and then, but they are new openings to develop me into someone stronger, scarred for the better.
