You could be a squeamish individual and abhor the sight of it, but I find the sight of blood oozing from a laceration on a person’s body to be a little bit wholesome. Maybe my mind perceives a true sense of humanity; vulnerability – fallibility even – from just one speck of blood.
For me, to ensanguine clothing is to revel in the mortality of being. And I am more than thankful for those who rebuff the claims that living forever is the ultimate goal; waiting on tenterhooks to be achieved. The prospect of eternal life does not appeal to me in the slightest. Why? Because, after a while, things grow terribly monotonous, and the urgency of existence dwindles briskly; why bother getting anything done now if you have the rest of time in which to do it? I’m sure if you were to ask around, you would find many others who share the same viewpoint as I.
Need I clarify, I should mention that I do not crave the sight of blood, particularly true in its larger quantities. I do not find its appearance to be of a great sensuousness (at times, its presence can instil fright and nausea), nor am I an entity with a taste for sanguinary actions. I do not thrive where other flounder around it. Simply put, the accident drawing of blood is a fix that will suit me sufficiently.
With items disarranged all around my room, circumvention of dangerous objects strewn about at floor level is an act demanding of skill. It was during the morning of Wednesday that I stepped on a shard formerly the possession of an intact light bulb. Splitting the skin instantaneously, I checked meticulously to see whether it had splintered beneath the layer of the epidermis (I saw nothing of the sort), and then proceeded to wash the wound. Yet whilst I did this, I allowed momentary breaks in the flow of water across it, in order to watch the blood seep out to the surface. Call it crazy if you must, but doing this brought a smile to my face; it uttered “you have never been more alive” in my ear.
The narrow gash has since closed without supplemental pain (I did check the wrong foot at first); evidence that there was once an unintentional orifice residing there, is hard to come by. But the fact remains that stanching the blood flow was not a first priority when the injury was inflicted.
1 comment:
i used to get bear nosebleeds (intentional mispelling), so im in no way squeamish. there is something pecculiarly appealing about revelling in others pains (dirty sanchez etc). blood is fine until it hurts. then its just like AAAAAAAARRRRGGGGHHH!!!!!!!!!!!! kinda.
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