Blood, the lifeline that keeps us alive, does not just simply circulate through the veins of our body, but serves to describe a great number of situations, emotions, even our character and being.
Blue blood is reserved for those who can flaunt for life the title of nobility without being precise it's specific significance. For a cruel gunman or assassin we say of him as being cold blooded; the passionate is described to have burning hot blood; when the blood runs, somebody is having a serious fateful moment, and when your blood is sucked, some parasite of XXL size has decided to live it up at your cost. Even in the magic world of Harry Potter, there's a place reserved for corrupt souls with dirty blood.
Of all the blood types one can live or feel, the saddest or most deplorable is that of Soya milk (in Spain anyway). And not for being morose or sluggish or painful, simply meaning insipid, weak and namby pamby. Having blood of Soya milk is like being a sack of potato; gives bulk, fills you up and never excites. A person with no spirit or soul. But who and under what precise moment decided to relate such neurosis with the very tasty (they think; I don't) and healthy milky drink? It's sweet but not oily or sticky, refreshing, nutritious, suitable for and liked by most adults and children, without producing unpleasant collateral damages.
How different things will be if in the veins of the world runs less blood and more Soya milk!
How different things will be if in the veins of the world runs less blood and more Soya milk!
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