A Sacred Scar

For every time I... well, I was going to say that for every time I look at my right palm with the central red mark leaping out at me, I feel something of a pride that I would have -- that I did hold a steady hand as it seared into me, which makes me the Puppy’s pajamas? But that is just not right, I realize as I pull up behind myself in a patrol car. That night was spiritually powerful for me, as it was so physically involved. I saw a new side of fire and its significance to me; that of pain and unpredictability:

Fire bursts out
Contagious, unpredictable, dangerous
Flames leap across
With unquenchable desire

I sat and stared into these words in my hand, which leapt out to me more than any of the others; I gazed into the Fire, at first trying, then releasing as I accepted that I could not impose reason on this Fire, though the two exist dependently. Passion -- I felt intense passion flicker through my body, though it was impossible to pin its source or direction (similar to the Wind, my soul sector) as my heart yearned and raged for, over nothing and everything, cryptic as the embers and their feeding flames. As I looked up, I saw the white fires scattered strategically indeterminate in the sky, then my gaze made full circle and grounded itself on the dark earth, whereon I spied fires of the forest floor -- embersparks which had sputtershop, not exactly escaping, yet neither quite being cast; more so just being there in relation to the the main body (as if that can be confined or so defined). I considered them neither exiles nor dissenters, but rather believed them to be emissaries. I gingerly pluck this one from the blacklit grass and drop it into my open palm. Its tiger glow slowly fades in my dark pools of reflective pupils, which plead it not to die; not to leave me cold, unfeeling. My lips become taut with the pain, fighting the instinct to cry out against apparently meaningless wounding, a seeming abuse of my installment in power and betrayal of the trust between us. I have scarcely felt more encouraged than when I am on my side (starboard of the keel), and conversely I have few times felt more disheartened than when that skipper abandons ship. But my hand knew there was something deeper than the burning, and thus remained in tender hover after the initial inevitable wince. And as the tiny ember orange-peeled away into my skin, I passed the point of reason and was able to feel, not think through feeling, but to purely feel that which sunk sanguine beyond my skin. Yes, it bubbled in protest (a reaction past the sanction of will), but finally manifests itself as the crimson spot upon my steady sin-swept hand. Good Friday, they say it is, and my right remembers sacrifice through the red round eye of pain imposed; and imperfect symbol of Stigmata’s stain.