Drawing first blood hurts the most. Only by the pain of the initial drip will one be able to transcend the superficiality of the process and afford a comprehension of its context. It is oft said that the healing process begins with acknowledging the pain, yet this offers little guidance in achieving recovery. Truth is, we must trudge our own paths of healing; regardless of the source and reason of distress, and the depth and period of mourning.

Perhaps the most unbearable of sorrows, even more than the palpable physical injury or the loss of a loved one, is the grief that cascades in the loss of oneself. Depression has many names, and even more varied symptoms, and it is fairly typical and quite innocuous for one to pass valuation on the apparent banality of another's depression. Depressed? Maybe I am, or maybe I'm almost. Either way, I cannot deny the poignancy of my existence from a sense of loss of who I once was. Change is imminent, and let this channel be a witness to the struggle I must pursue. Moreso than finding myself, but to define who I am. Beyond the obvious and mundane, behind the walls of preposterous theatrics, beneath the stern competitiveness.

So here I am. Decidedly initiating a process whose eventual conclusion I will never foresee. Left only with the caviar of faith I can muster, and the courage I can feign; to ensue an unraveling of memories, and the facing of personal demons; in the hopes of learning lessons I failed to realize then, and finding solace in my own reflections. I do pray that my readers be as patient and amiable to my prose as they are to me.



As blood curdles every passing moment, when coagulants engage in a frantic daze to prevent further loss, in the brief period when the sting of our lifeline drains from a cut, transformation occurs. The hemoglobin in the blood oxidizes from being in contact with the free oxygen molecules in air, turning color from the intense ruby to the dull tar, from the thick viscose consistency to rubbery remnants of the letting. When our very lifeline is spoiled, from being the elixir of our veins, to the lowly stain on a shirt. That is when descension is complete.

Red is the new black.