There is so much more I could write on this topic, but given only 5 minutes I could just skim the surface. But I want to keep creating, keep writing stories with my own hands.
My hands were made to touch, to create, to explore the world around me and fall more in love with it with each passing day
I look at his hands as I sit behind my computer screen, typing out an English essay on kindness. It’s not much, but the gentle curve of his fingers is prompt enough to begin a train of thought.
I am reminded of all the places I’ve been, the people I’ve loved, the gentle touches and soft glances. I remember the feeling of being found the first time he looked at me, and how that was a feeling I wanted to spend my whole life remembering. The feeling of found, I wrote that day, is not something I take lightly.My own fingers are sprawling over the keyboard as I begin to write about kindness, giving it and receiving it and how sometimes you have to dig it up out of yourself. I wrote about it and I watched his fingers and I was reminded of the first day, when I didn’t feel so very kind, and all the different sets of hand prints that make up my story now.
If you peel back my skin and expose my heart, I am also certain you would find sets of fingerprints, all unique but splashed together to create a beautiful piece of art. These are the fingerprints given to me, the stories and touches and smiles I have used to create something beautiful. They are my poetry, my inspiration, my heart beat. They are the words I have created with my own hands.
I think there is something beautiful about hands, and the way they can create and move and touch and express.
With this, I begin to write