And the crimson flows freely

We can't see it, but it's always there. But when it does rise to the surface, there is usually more behind it than broken capillaries. I may or may not have sliced my leg possibly shaving  with a hypothetical razor in my hypothetical shower this morning, but I have found that the bold redness has almost an alluring quality. Our blood, a dirty mix of our shame, beauty and all our ungrateful faults makes us the ingloriously glorified pathetic souls we claim to be. Nevertheless, the crimson flush signals we are alive, even if we choose not to believe so. Paths traced over, and over again, serve as reminders of something of an imminent inescapability. The blood that flows through us can host a range of emotion, making sure we feel every last possibly ounce of what happens to be being washed over us. Be it bliss, darkness, or most commonly despair, we are ensured vulnerability to it in the fullest extent. And because of this, we are forced into the most brutal corner of our existence.
 Yet in such a way, it is morbid how I find pain to be the most beautiful of all human emotion in awe of the hopeless power it hangs over us all; betrayed by the very blood in our veins.