The What's - its? The What-ifs? The Nothings', and The Entirety's.
“She wanted impossible stories. She wanted the imaginative nonsense”
I have a thing for hands.
Which isn’t weird - I promise.
Hands hold it all, you know? All the seen and unseen things that exist - lay within palms. Held softly, or gripped tightly or woven so deeply that one begins to see the weight of them only through widening cracks upon skin. Some, not to be read until years have swelled - and then, only to be wondered at.
Shallow and deep, trifling crevices, eloquent fault lines. A life, lived. A life.
Palms full, holding and hiding the lightness of uncountable moments, carrying them without thought. The weight of moments - unfathomable and unknown. Incomprehensible and strange - an unsolvable mystery - the answer written nowhere else but within. Imagine bearing crags of a life, for a lifetime - your own soul lines.
Imagine. The story of your soul sketched. The journey etched from fingertip to bone, unerasable, unassailable.
Lived.
Have you ever looked at your hands and remembered?
A memory comes unbidden - a time of youth, a mind full of inconceivable dreams - hanging from a fence. What a story, that scar.
So many moments catching fire - dappled and dimpled, speckled skin. Ellipses and punctuations - blisters and calluses.
Writ through with slashes of hardened white - bookending a tale of spinning metal, tearing. Coloured in bright red, spilling.
A gleam, small but bold. Golden, palm to palm - love, to the moon and back.
I have a thing for hands - they hold the nothings and the entierty’s, they hold my everything and my nothings, and my evermores.
