Red

It starts with a turn of the clouds within the mind. They gather and shield the suns rays from the heart. No light can be shed.
Then there begins a fall. It starts only as a slight slope downwards, but if the signs are known then the knowledge that nothing can be done to prevent it is remembered. Things will accumulate. Work, a lack of time, tears. Laughter sounds hollow and falls on closed off ears which only hear pain.
By now it is obvious to those on the inside, yet the outside remains completely oblivious to the warning signals that are put out. “Danger, danger”, the billboards are left unread.
Slowly the fall becomes steeper, steeper, as the glimmers of hope begin to snuff out. They cannot survive this kind of consuming tumble. If the hopes survived then the fall would have stopped.
After the fall begins to feel as old as the sun, the dreams come. The promise of eternal sleep. The prospect of black, forever. It seems to become tantalizing. This teases and seduces into the nothingness of itself. It is the seemingly perfect lover who is just out of reach. But the lover turns from you. “You ugly, disgusting, slut. You whore. You filthy scum. Why would you ever think you would be good enough for anyone? How dare you inflict your poison on others”? The lover has turned and the self loathing has begun to seep into the mind. “I am bad. I am a filthy slut. I am horrible for inflicting myself upon other people”.
The blood lust comes. It arrives with a need for contact. To remember how to feel, how to act human again. The need to remind every aspect of the body that there is a red substance that courses through the body and brings with it everything that continues life. Without it the corpse is left in place of what was once a living thing, and all of the redness turns cold and no longer flows with the push and pull of the moon within out skin. There is a way to remind the body of the red. Of the liquid god that resides within. It can only come with a price of scars attached. But they do not weigh anything in comparison to the release.
A needle, knife, pair of scissors, nails, teeth, sharp end of a compass. Anything will do. Anything that can rip a hole deep enough spout it through. Tearing. Ripping. Pulling. To see the red is beyond a must.
And then there it is. That pure lifesaving, life-giving beauteous liquid. Pure. It is pure. No. It is the essence of purity itself. It can be contaminated by nothing and yet already is. It is what many fear most and what even more are scared to lose. It is what we feel in times of passion, need, sadness, hope. It is life. It is death. it counts our time within itself and it counts down until we stop. the colour is what causes mother’s to weep for joy and sorrow. The texture is smoother than silk and harder than any diamond. It is so beautiful that looking at it hurts the eyes, yet to look away hurts the soul.
It tastes like freedom. Like the world is about to explode with life, love and opportunity. Like the waves are in time with the clouds and the sun and the moon will meet and embrace in their long lovers’ kiss of joy. It tastes of every idea that was ever longed for and every hope that will ever be conceived. The metallic ring is the wedding bells of the land and the sea, they can now be kept in their eternal hold on each other, giving and taking but always receiving and returning. That metallic zap is of the harmonious idealistic place that resides within a person where the opposing stuff that creates the universe decides to combine and create a balance of peace and darkness where everyone, everything is cloaked in the sweet serenity of night.
It tastes like life. It tastes like death.
And then the reality hits. The realisation that there are four parallel lines on the back of each hand and that they do not hurt. That they feel the best thing in the universe after the months of nothing. They are giving off a burning searing pain that is a shadow of what life is like. It is so beautiful, but not every other person will be able to see through those eyes. Other people see that, see the scars, and run. They do not see the beauty of the blood. They do not know of the freedom and purity that it represents. To them it is dirty and must stay hidden in the body.
“Lara, Lara”, a voice I recognise calls. “Can you hear me”? It is the therapist I have been seeing since I was six. Her voice has penetrated my session on reminiscing about my darker days. “Shall we stop now?” she asks already packing up her pen and notes. She does this at the en of each appointment and then sends me off with an invoice and a hug. She is my teddy bear, my safety net, my port to wait out any storm. When a doctor has been there for you for that long not only does dependence form but I know that she is part of my emotional palace of feelings, she is the foundations and without her everything will fall apart.
I can remember the darker times of my life. I can remember the want for my blood and the need to see it. I can remember the way that it pooled on my skin, like perfectly spherical rubies that would never be able to hold their shape for more than a fraction of a second, for they changed and evolved and grew with each heart beat, until they would form little ruby streams on my wrists. I can remember all of the want for an escape from the nothingness that had consumed me. But I could not remember the pain. I never felt the pain. It never once hurt. The sight of the scars hurt more than the feeling of the metal groping into my flesh. The point never bit me to cause me to flinch or cry out. I was too far gone into my world of nothing to feel that.
I wish I could remember. Just so that I can warn other people about how horrible it hurts, and how much pain it caused me, how that journey seemed to be never ending. But I know that that was not what hurt me. That was not pain for me. That was a release. It was the release of the emotions that would not come out in any other way. There were no words to describe the agony, there were no colours to draw it with, but that release was there, and I took it with my hands and used it to remind myself that I was alive, remind myself that I had to continue the terrible adventure. It was how I reminded myself that I was still going to wake up in the morning and go the sleep at night. It was how I reminded myself that I had to eat no matter how much a hated myself for doing so. It was how I reminded myself that I was alive despite everything I had done to change that. And above all it was how I reminded myself that I wanted to be alive. That blood was not foreshadowing for what was to come at a later date, not a message about the end of my travels.
No it was a way that I could tell myself that I had redness within me, and that meant that I had a passion, a fire, that wanted to come out. The liquid told me to use that fire, harness it and become consumed with passion for life, because all of that purity that is within me must be used for something strong, and what is stronger than that.

Red

nymph44

Joined August 2008

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Artist's Description

this is a story that i wrote about how those dark times can be remembered

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