I’ve always wanted to write something paramount. Something that would count, and make some huge impact. But my words seem unavailing; deleting hundreds of times. I want to write. I’ve got the big clouds brewing. A storm is sure to come. And I know, I’ve been through this before. The calm and quiet house, noisy keyboard… tap, tap, tap.
My fingers at work. I close my eyes; thoughts… ready to shatter the silence in my head. But not this time. Tonight, I watch my hands typing. Smooth skin, veins stream between long thin protruding bones. A subtle scar on the left. A few small brown specks. Sun’s lasting gift. My hands. These hands... An extraordinary design.
Hands have stories of their own. From the very first stage. Holding a mother’s bosom. Balancing first hesitant step. Learning. Working. Ageing hands… They carry stories. Intricate designs creating this thing called life. Some are held forever, and some are laid to rest… A hand is a greeting. A hand shows appreciation and praise. It guides. It helps. Hugs and loves… Linking humans. Connecting loved ones. An intimate and exclusive touch. Hands indeed have stories. Just take a look at the hands of another. What do you see? Their actions, their intentions. Their warmth and coolness, smoothness and roughness. Hands. Put them together. Spread them apart. Can you feel their story? Look closely. Can you really feel it? Can you rest slowly, weightlessly… in the hands of another.