A day.

Too hot to have the windows open.

Closed up, shrinking, waiting for the heat

Turned into one

With every door open wide

Welcoming the rain, the cool breeze, the thunder

The clean air.

Open, open.  It's ok right now.

Take it in.  

Bleed

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."

 So said Ernest Hemingway, at least according to Facebook. I'm not taking time to fact check, I'd rather just say "Right on!". Or maybe "Write on."

 There's a funny thing about bleeding. It's messy. So not only are you dealing with the pain and the actual trauma, now you also have a mess to clean up. The point of bleeding though, I'm told, is to clean the wound. That makes sense with a small cut. With a large injury, the kind where bleeding becomes the issue, where one may in fact bleed to death, that can hardly be the point.

 So here's the blood. It's messy, it may be cleansing, but at this moment I just want to find a way to stop the bleeding because I'm afraid I might die.

 The other thing about blood. It gets people's attention. You can hurt for a long time and no one sees it. The moment there's blood everywhere, it's everyone's business.