Last week, I got a paper cut on my right index finger. I was opening the mail, not paying attention as I was talking on the phone. It immediately started to bleed. I bled all over the white envelope, it was dripping on my desk, and on my pant leg. I began sucking on my finger in a lame attempt to heal myself. But I'm not Jesus or my dog, Rex, for that matter.
The evidence of my stupidity still remains; a slight scar formed. It's not the kind of scar that I'd normally pick at. It's the kind of cut that sort of throbs when you don't want it to, but intriguing enough that I am constantly pressing my thumb against it to feel a sharper pain. I think I've always done this. A toothache, a cold sore, joint and muscle pain from exercising.
The tactile sense reminds me I'm alive.
I'm alive.
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