The Perfect Crime

Today, I'm stealing a post title and in its own way, an entire post.  With that said, I'll give credit where credit is due: http://www.iwrotethisforyou.me/2010/10/perfect-crime.html

Something about that struck me.  I don't know why, or not exactly, at least.  Veins.  Veins carry blood throughout the body.  Blood.  Blood is more symbolic than literal in every way I think about it.  It carries life not because it really does provide nutrients and oxygen and sustains the physical body, but because it has come to represent what may be interpreted as the so-called essence of life.

Maybe it's the mention of opening a vein, of spilling blood.  It's releasing life.  Did I read too far into it?  Was the opening of a vein purely metaphorical and entirely unrelated to literal, physical, warm, viscous, crimson blood?  Perhaps.  Regardless, that is how I read it.  As spilling out the essence of life, releasing anything that will flow out into words.

I haven't written like that in a long time.  My writing has been devoid of that much significance, weight, meaning, emotion for...many, many months.  It's not a matter of shortage of emotion, but that in itself is confusing to me.  Where then did that emotion go?  Where did the thoughts spill out from my veins?  Or perhaps, what is left in me now?

Have I, in fact, run out of veins?
How did that happen?
What happens now?