The cut

I remember how the protagonist in Andre Gide's "The Immoralist" was thrilled at the sight of fresh, warm blood oozing in profusion from the young finger of a child who cut himself while playing with a scissor. The protagonist was convalescing from what could have been a terminal illness and this crimson liquid that poured before his eyes filled him with a sense of health that was amiss and life that could have been.

I write this today as this imagery suddenly came back to me while I was staring with no insignificant fascination at the copious drops that squirted from a deep cut on my own little finger of the left hand. I marveled at its lusty volume, its lucid texture, at its engaging colour. I looked captivated as it traced its path around my palm and my wrist, wetting and painting them. I was charmed to see the water turn red in the basin, the skin split into a deepish furrow & the affliction of impudent, cold water on raw flesh.

I was enchanted at this sudden reminder of life.