The bruise makes a curious dark pattern across my skin. In any other situation, this mingling of purple and black would be almost beautiful, after all the colours flow in and out of one another like the gas clouds in a nebula.
But on skin? No on skin it is not beautiful because it hurts. Not the sharp hurt of a cut, which I could plaster and patch up until my body healed itself, but the dull ache of a wound that always makes itself known whenever I brush past it with my fingertips.
This bruise is just from falling over, and I know, dear diary, that it isn’t one which should be given many words in your numbers.
But you know what the most important thing is?
I got up today. I stood up, even though my arm aches from where I broke my fall. Even though it hurt when I fell. Even though my arm still aches as if I haven’t put ice on it for nearly two hours.
I got up again.
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