We are all innocent, until we die.

Kiss your scars. Fall in love with them. They ought to serve as life-affirming reminders—a lingering trace of hope. The only reason we have these scars is because we survived and are still here.

Life is like the dirt we bury our dreams and fears in. It blemishes the way. As things tend to grow by the rain of our belief or doubts.

THIS IS WHAT A MAN LOOKS LIKE. HE DOES NOT HAVE TO BE AESTHETICALLY PLEASING; HE DOES NOT HAVE TO BE MUSCULAR; HE DESERVES NOT TO BE PHOTOSHOPPED. HE IS HUMAN, AND HE HAS BLEMISHES. HERE HE STANDS, VISIBLE. HE SEES YOU ALL, COUNTLESS INVISIBLE OTHERS LIKE HIM. THIS BODY IS ACCEPTABLE — PUBESCENT, AWKWARD, MARRED. YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE INVISIBLE. WE ARE ALL GOOD ENOUGH. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH OUR BODIES.

Nostalgia is your brain's way of photoshopping the blemishes of your past.

We are nothing without them, our scars and our blemishes. Take away our delusional smiles if you must, snatch away our illusory happiness if you must, but please leave us our flaws for we do not wish to exist without them.