i’m bumuming that others, too, have writing clbumes; i’m just trying to get through mine without being sent to the school psychiatrist yet again. still, i can only write what i know. i thought i would share this week’s work with you all here since i felt that i could rely upon my audience truly understanding me.

It’s quick, the cut. The most unkindest cut of all, even. The blade slices roughly through the skin, drawing the two sides apart like parchment torn raggedly in two. A moment of breathing, a moment of stillness and then, inevitably, seeping up through the torn flesh, blood comes, a visceral red, bringing to mind all that has come before and all that is yet to come. The blood pools, starts to congeal, and then, gathering too much mbum and too much force, drips with an excruciating slowness, revolving in seeming slow motion only to smash suddenly into the floor and shatter into a thousand points reflected back on the tip of the moonsilver blade.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out, sighs reflected by the welling of the blood and the sound of a heart beating, seemingly endless, yet unwilling.  The blood starts to slow, to clot, only to be reinvigorated with the tainted agony of the edge scraping ceaselessly over the ragged flesh grown inured to the pain.  Inside pain finds outside loci, with the inner screaming continuing without cessation mirrored by the slow pulsation of blood to the surface as the quicksilver sheen of the razor slices thrice more, drawing deeper and deeper emotions and strengths to the surface.  A glance at the face of the girl shows nothing more than a taut and drawn expression peering anxiously at the inner force that proves her existence.

Slicing deeper and deeper through layers of skin, the quest for truth seems nothing so much as a revelation about existence.  No matter how exquisite the pain, the agony, the truth, the ability to deny pain mirrors the ability to deny the truth, the relentless battering of life and reality against barriers set up to protect the shattered reality that is so painfully inhabited by one so desperate to escape it.  The more sharp and pressing the pain grows, the further away the girl distances herself, drawing her arm closer to her side and watching emotionlessly as the blood inches its way out of her arm, creating Rorschach images of countless nightmares and dreams on the tile at her feet.  Glancing at the images is not enough and can never be enough as countless images become evident within the world opened up by the lifeblood coursing out of her body, a world more nightmarish and yet more true and fantastic than any other.