Cut Away
2004-06-27 - 10:49 p.m.

I am bleeding. Looking in the mirror, I can see the tear in my flesh where my life is running out. I grab a towel and try to staunch it. The towel soaks red in seconds, and the bleeding just won’t stop. I apply more pressure, and finally the crimson flood dams itself, if only for a few seconds.

I turn on the water and begin to cleanse myself. As the fresh blood is rinsed away from my arm, I can see a jagged patchwork of scars. They form a complex mosaic of past failures and mistakes, things I should have avoided but did not. I look up, not wanting to dwell on my cobwebbed arms, but that only draws my attention to my face. Its scars form their own roadmap, a way to recreate the path I’ve taken to reach this place.

I stand there for about an hour, looking at my legs, my arms, my face, all covered with permanent records of my past experiences. Soon, the memory of the experience that caused my latest abrasion is fading. I look down, and am surprised to find that what was a gushing wound moments earlier is now just another white line on my skin.

A few seconds later, and I pick up the razor, and begin to cut away again.