Where Are Your Hands

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There’s a thousand feelings to be felt, but I feel nothing, nothing, nothing, that shadowy sensation of nothing. I am composed of a set of clothes which promenade, masquerade a charade to fool the seas of people who claim that this set of clothes is a really strong person. Meanwhile I’m the gypsy begging for someone to please turn down the silence in my head. Let me feel again. Let me cry. Let me laugh. Let me look into Your beautiful face and find feeling there. Don’t be a Prince in shining armor, don’t pull the moon and stars from the sky. Let them fall, and crash in disturbing arcs of destruction. Don’t even change the stark and dreamless horizon. Just keep me company here. Leave the sun in its jealous sky. Leave reality cold and harsh, as long as I can hold Your warm hands. Don’t pretend with me. Just dream with me. I don’t need everything to work out perfectly, but I do need You. I’m living like I’m a voice which says the words I mean, and watches them hopelessly as they fall from the air, devoid of the meaning assigned to them. I’m the paintbrush living in a black and white world, wondering, where are Your hands? When can I do what I’m meant to do? When can I unleash colour on a dull insensate world? When I’m at my lowest, full of internal conflict, the appalling lack of emotion, and complete insensitivity to any touch, I wonder to myself, where are Your hands? When the questions come knocking on my door, who really dreams these days anyhow? Who still feels these days anyhow? What poets are still alive and writing these days? I wonder, where are Your hands? When someone is falling down a cave in a landslide of self-doubt or apprehension, I’m there and my hands are empty, ready. My mind is screaming LET ME! LET ME INTERVENE! My virgin hands are wide open, empty, ready, and where are Your hands? Your hands are reinforcing my own. I’m built to save lives, but not alone. I wasn’t allowed to recently, but that doesn’t stop me. It doesn’t deter me in the slightest manner, instead, it fuels my determination. I know who I am, and even more importantly, I know who I’m going to become. When life is  dripping from someone’s fingertips in red reminders of pain, I want to tell them: Don’t be afraid. Fear just isn’t worth it. People can slip away from your life, tearing a part of you away. I’ve learned how to live 150% more when half of you is torn away. Look inside yourself. Face your weaknesses, but don’t be blind. Inside of you is a hero, a warrior who WILL survive. I know that because it’s something we have in common. Life is silent, musicless, despite my numerous instruments. Where would I be without music? When my fingers on the black and white keys fail to bring back the feeling to my numb composition, where are Your hands? See the pen resting lifeless, drowning in the paper whiteness. Reach down, and save her, give her something to feel. Where are Your hands?

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