A close friend asked me once, "When your realise that a lot of people in your life can leave wounds in your soul, do you start wondering if they're worth it?" The answer is no. I never thought about it until she asked me that. But the answer I gave her came pouring out like I've had it in my head for years already. I guess I have subconsciously thought about (this point may not be relevant. I just wanted to point it out because the the human brain is incredible and it never ceases to amaze me).
Here's what I think:
Everything painful in life leaves a wound. Time heals it, sometimes without morphine. But most people do eventually heal. After that, you're left with a memory and a scar.
Here's what I think:
Everything painful in life leaves a wound. Time heals it, sometimes without morphine. But most people do eventually heal. After that, you're left with a memory and a scar.
Imagine you had a blank piece of paper and every person in life has a paintbrush. When you meet someone, be it for one moment or many moments, they leave a mark on your paper. Sooner or later, you realise that people sometimes leave marks that are not pretty at all and in a colour that you completely hate. So you stop letting people paint your paper because you don't want them to ruin it. You start by keeping them at arms length, fearing for the state of your piece of paper.
But still, some people are able to flick paint onto your paper. They get paint on the wrong spots and in the most horrible colours, even when you keep it so far away from them. So then you decide to put your paper in a glass case with whatever marks it already has. Your aim is, still, to preserve that piece of paper from further 'damage'. People try to paint it but the paint doesn't stick so they move on because life is about painting on other people's papers Eventually, you're left with that same old paper from the day you chose to box it up. The same marks, the same creases. Never changing. Stagnant. You don't allow for the chance that your paper might be painted by people who are beautiful and talented. You stand next to your glass encased paper and watch as people pass you by, insisting that you are better off like this.
Eventually, you get lonely so you finally decide to take your paper out of it's case because you want new paint on it and you think it's time. You are finally ready to take that chance. The moment you open the case, your paper crumbles in the air because the it's dry and brittle from being in the glass case for so long. There was no new paint to give it life, no wet paint to soften it. And all that you're left with is a pile of dust in your hands. No one else can ever paint it again because no one knows how to paint a pile of crumbled paper.
But still, some people are able to flick paint onto your paper. They get paint on the wrong spots and in the most horrible colours, even when you keep it so far away from them. So then you decide to put your paper in a glass case with whatever marks it already has. Your aim is, still, to preserve that piece of paper from further 'damage'. People try to paint it but the paint doesn't stick so they move on because life is about painting on other people's papers Eventually, you're left with that same old paper from the day you chose to box it up. The same marks, the same creases. Never changing. Stagnant. You don't allow for the chance that your paper might be painted by people who are beautiful and talented. You stand next to your glass encased paper and watch as people pass you by, insisting that you are better off like this.
Eventually, you get lonely so you finally decide to take your paper out of it's case because you want new paint on it and you think it's time. You are finally ready to take that chance. The moment you open the case, your paper crumbles in the air because the it's dry and brittle from being in the glass case for so long. There was no new paint to give it life, no wet paint to soften it. And all that you're left with is a pile of dust in your hands. No one else can ever paint it again because no one knows how to paint a pile of crumbled paper.
I think every person will leave a scar and everyone is worth it. At least until they start turning scars into fatal wounds. But till then, life is about painting other people's lives and trying your hardest to make sure you don't ruin their beautifully painted paper. Being wounded is a natural part of life. Without spots of intense ugliness on your paper, you'd never know how stunning the rest of it is. The point is to spread as much beauty as you can and to limit the amount of damage you bring into the world.
Everyone is worth the scars they leave you. Because the scars they leave you are what makes you special.
Everyone is worth the scars they leave you. Because the scars they leave you are what makes you special.
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