Monday, February 6, 2012

Stumbled through the morning in a fog, as usual these days. For some reason I woke up around dawn absolutely drenched in sweat, dying under my layers of flannel sheets and feather duvets. But as soon as I threw off the covers I was instantly chilled, frozen, and it seemed wrong- hot and cold, damp yet static-y. And then my nose started gushing blood while I was washing my face, at first just a drop or two of water coming off my face was pink, and I hardly noticed, but then I looked in the mirror and it was bright red streaming out of my nose, over my mouth, off my chin.
I've gotten nosebleeds my whole life, but they became worse and more often when we moved to dry and cold Alberta. It still shocks me sometimes, seeing that red like paint liquid splash everywhere, overflow over my fingers as I bolt to the bathroom, drip onto the floor, the sink, my desk, my clothes. And the taste of iron at the back of my throat, and the way it stains. There is no colour in the world as chilling as your own blood. So dense, so potent and deep, it makes my heart stutter in a bad way, yet it is familiar. It resonates as mine, belonging to me, and it is amazing that my body produces something so beautiful and necessary.

It was colder today than it has been, and the trees and bushes and parks where covered in sheets of frost. With the sun and my new toque on it was glorious. But again, I couldn't touch it, feel it in the same way I normally do. It just sort of floated down, settled in to my brain and senses, and I thought abstractly of how poetic it all was.

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