Mentally, emotionally, spiritually. In all but one way of being well, I am. I am physically hindered. And I'm quite detatched from it, now. I'd none too often seen blood pour from me like a faucet having been turned on.

I've seen it stream. I've seen it ooze. I've seen it puddle and fill. I've seen it drip, and I've watched it roll and spill. But never pour.

And now, I've seen it pour in such excess as to make it commonplace. My concerns not raised. My stomach not queasy. My health not questioned.

I find it peculiar how peculiar I am. I'm so different as if to be an alien. No man should rightfully dismiss such an issue as to be pouring blood from a wound. No person would do that at all. But me...just a mess to be cleaned. Even I find that odd.

I am a mystery. Even unto myself.

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And that's that.
Referenced #2
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To write them.
Heart vs mind.