A simple household nick, near the nail on a finger already scarred. That one of them that's first to feel the cold. At the moment that I did it, I took no note at all; tasks still lay before me, and it couldn't have been that bad.

It made itself a nuisance somewhat later, as I prepared to handle something somewhat precious, and noticed that to do so would be to smear it crimson. I held that hand with the evidence toward the light, traced the trail of its origin, spotted the nearby smudges I'd left on myself through accidental contact.

Waste no chance to learn of oneself, I thought, moving my mouth to the leak, tongue rasping in the way that cleanses. Moving to seek the open place of its source, to seal it damply, to collect this random sample of my own hidden flows. Lips moving automatically to account for the smudges, until I could hold my hand before me clean, and think upon what I had learned.

Fantastically complex chemical analysis at a level mostly instinctual was taking place, using fully what the many generations before me had passed along in terms of nerves and senses, and the memories of the myriad times I'd done this very thing.

How valuable it is, from time to time, to taste one's own blood, fresh from fueling one's own life.

Sometimes the taste of it is sweeter, sometimes thicker; sometimes both or neither. There are truths in it, about where you have been and have in you, about what all that has done to you. The foggy deep evaluations that make us all spit poisons, swallow what might sustain, are just as accurate about ourselves, and it is always instructive to know oneself this way, and to feel the recommendations of the urges the hindbrain can supply.

I'm growing used to being both delighted and aghast at what I find, at what my instincts tell me of myself. But on this day at least, there's naught to fear.

My gaze shifts to that tiny cut, and my mouth quirks. It oozes still, despite the time that's passed since its inception. I know this cut is of the type that does that, but I also recall a time when my body would seal such trivia almost as I watched. I find myself annoyed at living my life postponed, at being prevented from returning to my tasks from such a small wound as this.

I know that I must guard what still remains to me, and make it wisely spent, but my irritation sparks me to use it on this small thing nonetheless. I fix my gaze upon the spot, and whisper the words of my will.

Perhaps somewhere upon me some few hairs have just gone white, but I no longer leak; the trade is made. I push away regret and clean the spot, which now stays clean.

Back to work then, self; you're still intact. You know that you're still able, and there's still so much to do.