Old Bruises

Would you believe me if I said I forget quickly? Not the deep set wounds. Not the wounds which keep reminding me of what a fool I had been to not have read the signs. Not the wounds which are still fresh. But the wounds which I had received long ago. The wounds which have accumulated, quite unknowingly, over the years, slowly, insidiously.
Yes. I forget them. I keep forgetting all of those small hurt. Somebody, whom I think I have a particular dislike towards now, had once told me that I heal fast. And I replied by saying that I forget soon enough. I forget, become stronger and move on.
So yes, while you remember the first time you fell down the stairs and got a bruise, I don’t. While you remember the first time your mom scolded you for not having scored well, I don’t. I don’t remember all those little wounds. Or the big ones. Ask me now how many times I have been hurt badly and my instinct would be to tell you one time. The only one time I now remember being broken to pieces. Such pieces as I could not pick up anymore. That is the only one time that I would perhaps recall when you abruptly tap me on the shoulder in the middle of the road and ask me about the times I’ve been hurt.
But there are days when all the hurt I have succeeded in pushing far, far away into the back crevices of my mind, manage to come forward. They manage to dance in blinding lights in front of my eyes. They manage to tear open long forgotten cuts. And the worst part is, somedays I cannot really point out why I’m hurting so. I cannot separate each memory. All I know is there’s hurt lurking in the corners of my soul. Too much of it.
You know how sometimes you have a long forgotten bruise on your arm? How you might have bruised it six months ago while colliding with the open door? How you forget it exists? How you still wince if your hand falls on that place without quite remembering why you winced so bad? Do you know that feeling?
Well, this what I am talking about is much like those old, long forgotten bruises. Small, yes. Small enough for you to forget them. And yet too significant to not hurt even now. Over the years, I have almost forgotten why it hurts so much. But it hurts. So much that a teardrop finds its way down my cheek.
But of course, there are those days too, when you actually remember all those separate memories. The hurt is simply multiplied those times. Because sometimes, old bruises still hurt.

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