not just in the sense of blood exiting flesh, but mostly the sense of insidious, sly, seeping.
this occured to me in history today (WHERE I COULD HAVE SAT NEXT TO UNF GUY BUT I HAD TO BE ~LOYAL TO NOMI rofl) because i was sitting in front of an overhead projector (digression: i really need to work on remembering the spelling of tricky words i.e. projecter, independant, relevent), which would have been a completely innocuous projector had it not been sitting directly in front of one of those dinky mounted-whiteboard-on-an-easel things, which i always see as either a cute or pathetic extension of the vast gleaming expanse of a whiteboard, depending on mood (digression: don't you just love how white is always the signifier of all things good? purity, cleanliness, innocence, potential. well for once you can fuck off, white, because you may have noticed that in the real world, white always turns to grey. life is too dirty for the maintenance (another tricky word) of impossible ideals. at this point i may have decided to dedicate my life to filth and degradation, but hey, i'm still young. plans can fuck off too, it seems (who am i kidding, i have the same wants as the rest of them).
sorry, i was rambling about bleed, yes.
anywho (which is a completely random word that seems to have usurped the position of "anyhow" which i love because it is an example of the fluidity of language through time), bleed is an absolutely lovely word because of the connotations of slow, steady creeping. be it sly infiltration--
oh wait i was going on about that OHP in history class, um (i have this problem with structuring my arguments in essays too, no worries):
so the ohp, in front of the dinky whiteboard, and you know how those whiteboards are mounted on steel easels? but you can still see the border of the whiteboard, and the screws that hold it in place? well on this one, on the right, the paint from the easel had bled onto the whiteboard frame. i could not stop staring at it (which is unsurprising, it was history, ho hum) because it was... well i was puzzled, to be perfectly honest. how did that paint get there? was the easel repainted after mounting (har, har)? why did the paint seep only on that lower right side? did it gain sentience and decide to migrate, molecule by molecule?
so the bleeding of paint, the bleeding of erythrocytes (ngl i had to look this up; sorry pn lim), the bleeding of ideas.
you know how it's like when you wake up from a bizarre dream and you try to remember it and it bleeds through your fingers like so much water?
you know what it's like when you someone defects from your circle of comradeship and bleeds their hearts into another puddle of conformity (this isn't in reference to anything, i swear)?
you know what it's like when your heart - an overly romanticised bag of valves and vessels - feels like its bleeding, but it really isn't because you would be dead in point five of a nanosecond and are just a neurotic bitch?
i am not sure what was the point of this post
(it sounded better in my head)
(also bleeding - the physical kind - is less painful and/or cathartic than you may have thought. trust me, i have an epidermis-thinning strain of eczema)
today's apotheosis of Bleed brought to you by:
an old wound.
(yes that is a scissors you see on the left. yes i used it in an attempt to gouge splinter out. happy times.)
