Everyone is looking for an excuse to not bleed. Not do it, not say it, not write it. It’s easier that way, they think. But is it? Is it really?

People don’t like being vulnerable, but who likes to expose a wound? Worse, having life pour alcohol all over it? Nobody. Find me the person who says, “I do,” and I’ll show you a liar. It’s just not logical. Yet without the alcohol, without the burn, you risk infection. Is that what you want?

Something that courses through your blood, turning everything from red to black. How hard will it be to rid that infection? More like a damn virus, probably. An incurable haunting that never really leaves you. Ripping through your veins with an invigoration that implodes the rest of your life. Nothing easy about it, but therein lies the pleasure of vulnerability. You’re alive, senses howling at you, and then there’s more life. A new one, a better one, one you’ve bled for.

Yes, the thing we need most is the thing we most often avoid. Whatever it is. So we do, but I say, go for it. Sure, you might bleed out. But what else? The alternative is a life tormented by dead dreams, suppressed feelings, and unspoken desires. The only reality you’ll ever know—your mind, occupied with dancing skeletons. Fuck that. Sounds horrifying, no?

Is this too dramatic? Maybe, but truth stings worse than the alcohol of life. The truth is smothering. Unrelenting. The truth follows you everywhere. To work, at dinner with friends, and back to the pillow at night. Ah, the pillow. Nothing can pass the pillow. Life’s truest test. There you are, lying awake, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling above you. Is the paint starting to crack?

Just bleed, I say. Bleed out.

*This article is part of the ongoing Morning After series: short, reflective pieces on thoughts, feelings, and ideas about life. They’re kind of like well-manicured journal entries, written the morning after a night out.