15 February 2006
My precious hands
I've always liked my hands. Not as much as I love my crowning glory, though, but I like them still. Like having a pet.
I write with my right hand. From that you can say that I do pretty much everything with my right hand: combing, waving, dialing the phone, carrying small objects, eating, touching other people, covering my mouth when yawning or laughing like mad etc. She's like an unsung hero. Ever dependable, despite her showing veins--prolly because she overworks sometimes. She's still pretty, though; and man, when she dances, she does it well.
My left hand is a little darker and leaner. Having the supporting role, he is usually relaxed, but not at all useless. He likes having fun and at times be a little too carefree a soul, yes, but he can be very caring too: giving his counterpart a little massage when she gets tired, holds her close when she gets cold, supporting me when boredom tries to knock me off... He may not be a good dancer, but he's still cool.
All of this must sound crazy to you, me talking about my hands like they're real people. Well you can't blame me: I practically grew up with them. They have known and seen everything there is to me, and hiding shit from them is one of the last things I could dream of. That is almost the same as saying, they're all I got.
Well, in reality, they are. People have come and gone in my life. My hands have been there every single moment...
I really like my hands. They're as good as having beings you call "best friends"--beings who enjoy life with you and help fight your battles when you can't go solo anymore.
I do not have actual best friends anymore. I lost my third and probably the last one seven years ago. My hands were also friends with that person....
Right now, I am once again inches away from yet another loss. It has yet to happen, but I am already sad. On the other hand, I am also too tired to bother experiencing utter sadness. So, maybe for now, I'll lay off it and just let my hands do the crying...
I write with my right hand. From that you can say that I do pretty much everything with my right hand: combing, waving, dialing the phone, carrying small objects, eating, touching other people, covering my mouth when yawning or laughing like mad etc. She's like an unsung hero. Ever dependable, despite her showing veins--prolly because she overworks sometimes. She's still pretty, though; and man, when she dances, she does it well.
My left hand is a little darker and leaner. Having the supporting role, he is usually relaxed, but not at all useless. He likes having fun and at times be a little too carefree a soul, yes, but he can be very caring too: giving his counterpart a little massage when she gets tired, holds her close when she gets cold, supporting me when boredom tries to knock me off... He may not be a good dancer, but he's still cool.
All of this must sound crazy to you, me talking about my hands like they're real people. Well you can't blame me: I practically grew up with them. They have known and seen everything there is to me, and hiding shit from them is one of the last things I could dream of. That is almost the same as saying, they're all I got.
Well, in reality, they are. People have come and gone in my life. My hands have been there every single moment...
I really like my hands. They're as good as having beings you call "best friends"--beings who enjoy life with you and help fight your battles when you can't go solo anymore.
I do not have actual best friends anymore. I lost my third and probably the last one seven years ago. My hands were also friends with that person....
Right now, I am once again inches away from yet another loss. It has yet to happen, but I am already sad. On the other hand, I am also too tired to bother experiencing utter sadness. So, maybe for now, I'll lay off it and just let my hands do the crying...
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