And all the world slips away into the crimson brilliance. If only this moment could last forever and into eternity, if only this bliss could prevail through the destruction of my life. If only, if only. If only all the world were so simple, if only all pain were so intimately interwoven with pleasure. Then, perhaps happiness would find me. Perhaps beauty and peace could be found in the pain and chaos, but this moment does not last an eternity. This moment and this euphoria is fleeting as moments and feelings always are. I cannot feel this way forever for I have not enough blood to bleed though I will never be left without words that I cannont scream. There must be another way through the darkness, some other way to bleed from my open heart and wrists. For even wounds must eventually dry and scab and heal; they cannot speak forever and they can only begin to utter what must be said as they spill and gush and drip their venomous poetry warmly into the cold night air. There is always more to say and meaning becomes lost in the intensity pouring from severed veins. Covered, spattered, and immmersed, meaning is confused and misunderstood when shrouded in red. Blood is no ink to write a story but it speaks words of the soul in a way that no ink ever could.
I am here and I am alive. I know because with this blade I could be just as easily dead and gone. There can be no life without death and the blade will never let me forget this. The blade reminds me to relish in the pain of this experience for the pain is living when life is numb, dark, and cold. I'm gasping for air, inhaling only blood into my lungs, tasting its sweetness and resting in the calm for a beautiful moment in time. In this moment, perfection is realized, its existence is known and if only briefly, perfection is attained. Its beauty is overwhelming, its seduction completely irresistable, and its intesity humbling.
There is something far greater than I. Something far more powerful than my physical self lives within me, in my hands, in my fingers, and in the edge of the blade; it exists in my heart and mind and it has the power to give life, or to take it away. It has the power to define life in terms of death and to create existence in terms of pain and fear. It's power is beyond me and yet it is me. I am more powerful than I can comprehend and entirely powerless to control anything in the same breathe. With each breathe, I inhale life into my chest and fend off the inevitability of death for another handful of precious seconds. With every incision, I welcome death into this world of the living, and invite it to reside within me. Or is each gaping hole opened allowing the death that lives inside to escape and inviting the life which surrounds me in?
In each slice lives an escape from that which is inescapable and as passion dribbles across the surface of virgin skin, I am free of my prison and forever chained to this moment and to the sacrifice I have made to experience this fleeting moment of freedom. This is no real freedom. Freedom is not realized through rivers of blood or the sting of a blade. Real freedom is not an escape but an acceptance of truly being present in this moment and experiencing life as I invite it into my chest with each new breathe. There is no freedom in bleeding, only imprisonment forever more within the memory of these desperate moments when so much must be said without whispering a single word.
This pain lasts long after the blood has dried and the wounds have scabbed and healed. Forever these scars will remain and forever they shall speak. Long after I have learned to speak for myself, they shall continue to say what I never could but they shall never define me; they will never be me. I am more than my pain. I am more than the blood. I am more than these scars and more than the silent screaming that has defined my past. Freedom is breaking this darkness of silence and screaming brilliantly into the light.