You know what, sunshine? They always say it somewhere. Time will heal all wounds, and you'll come out as if nothing happened. Unless it's really life-threatening, you'll probably get up from that bad fall, put some bandage on your wound, and after a few days or so, it's as if nothing happened. That's the case with most of my childhood wounds. A cut on my finger is now barely discernible. A big (by childhood standards) scrape on my knee is now a proud, well, knee.

But they always say another thing somewhere, too. Time will heal all wounds, but things will never be the same again. After the fall, you'll be very conscious of your actions. Better not run too fast or you risk being made fun of again. Better not cry, or be called a crybaby. Better not do this, better not do that. We all learn something from our cautiousness, and we never come out the same again. And that also means the scars that you get with it. My once proud knee got a bad cut, and it's got a keloid scar now. My elbow ceremoniously got its colors that way, too. Nobody may know, but it's there.

It's a way of balancing out things. You can't have the world, but you should have a slice of it. Some may be damn lucky, while others may be worse off, but a slice of the world is better than none at all. But you may not like your slice, wish you had another slice, and that's where it begins.

Oh, how I wish I never did those mistakes.

But back then, sunshine, that was the best thing to do. I hoped that by running so fast I'll make a mark; that everybody will remember what I did, and what I was before, and what I have become after. It's going to be a brighter world afterwards, even if the skies aren't cooperating. Oh, but you know what happened. It's fairly humiliating - very distressing - when I took the dive and hit the pavement head first, thinking it'll give me what I want. A bigger slice of the world.

In return, I got nothing but scars. Sure, it isn't painful where it used to be, but it's there, and it reminds me of how the world hated me when I took the plunge. And now I can't do much about it, thinking that it will go back to normal, but instead contending with what some may think of what I used to perceive as the guts to speak up. "No, you can't do that," they said. "I told you so," they say now. And I don't know whether I could come back again.

True, true. Time will heal all wounds. It's happened, obviously, or else I'd not be able to do what I think I love to do. But things will never be the same again, and right now I'm thinking about whether there's something good with hanging on to the one thing I thought I should do. Right now, perhaps, people think I'm not made for it. I've lost their favor, their attention, and perhaps their respect. Some say I haven't, but there's no use to it; I'm looking for a new slice of the world. That, or nothing at all.

But you're leaving, sunshine? Why do you have to?