Wrist

In this vocation, I seem to accumulate all manner of filth. Literally speaking.

I shed my old uniform- relieved to be rid of the various stains left by things I don't want to dwell on- and go to my closet to retreive a fresh one. My hand pauses as I reach for the door.

I look at my wrist. I flex my fingers.

Sweet Azar, I'm thin.

I try not to make a habit at looking at my body. It's not because of insecurity of my physical appearance, but because it's often a sobering reminder of just how frail I really am. Of course, being the petite little thing I am, I need little reminder of just fragile I appear. But looking at my wrist, bare and pale, I remember just how easily I could die.

I don't think I'm morbid for thinking about my own mortality. I'm certainly not suicidal, as much as the world might benefit if I was. No, looking at my wrist, realizing how one laceration could bring about the end of my existence, it has the exact opposite effect. I want to live. I want to live so badly.

And that scares me.

A long time ago, I came to terms that I would die. That everything dies. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself. It's moments like this, moments where I look down at my thin wrist and notice that slight shaking that only I can see, that I realize I may just be lying to myself.

Death is inevitable. In the end, everything returns to dark nothingness from whence it came. These aren't the ghoulish cries for attention from a sad little girl. These are facts. Facts that I want to say I can accept wholeheartedly. But if I could accept this, why do I keep dwelling on it? Why is it I keep reminding myself of my supposed "acceptance" every time I look at pale, thin wrists? Am I trying to bury a deep fear inside me? A instinct, primal fear engraved into every cell in my body?

I run a finger over my wrist. I shiver. My hands are cold. As if there was no blood coursing through my body. I'm cold and pale as a corpse, but- as uncharacteristic as this sounds- I have to laugh at myself for thinking such a thing. Sometimes, at least. Other times, I have to wonder if I'm actually alive or if I've become nothing more than a lingering phantasm trapped watching the living go about their daily motions.

Honestly, I can't say I don't find that a little appealing. That's a kind of freedom the living don't allow themselves to have. Just...being. Floating on whims and remaining forever untouched. Free to enjoy the kinds of beauty the living never have the time to observe. No duties, no obligations, nothing but a free flow of thought and will.

Honestly, though, I can't say I'm entirely comfortable without some kind of fetters. I suppose it's the nature of all things to desire conflict for some mad reason mere mortals can never comprehend. Maybe all things need an opposing force to truly be whole. There's nothing to be learned from effortless efforts. So I read out in the living room, in plain view of all. I struggle and groan as my friends tow me about, never firmly planting my feet on the ground and putting up any real protest. I provide the ebb to the flow of things around here.

I wonder...will I ever be the flow? No, I suppose not. Maybe I'm just being pestimistic, but I doubt anything will ever flow smoothly in my life. But...it is an amusing thought. Me actually being on the giving end of harassment, rather than the receiving. And what poor, miserable soul would be the ebb to my flow? What truly pathetic wretch could find me annoyingly cheerful and upbeat? The day I find such a person would be the End Times, no doubt. But still...

But still, ever so slightly, the thought brings the slightest smile to my lips. In spite of it all, I don't have things that bad. It's a nice thought, if not entirely true. Not entirely true, but not entirely false. As dark as I am, as red as the accursed blood is in my veins...

I look at my wrist. I flex my fingers.

Sweet Azar, I'm thin. But that doesn't bother me. Even Pandora's Box had Hope inside it. A small, frail light, maybe the size of a constantly conflicted girl stuck being the ebb to the flow of things.

I put on a fresh uniform.

Hmm. I wonder if Starfire has any plans this afternoon...