My Hands

I live in the Bay Area and I commute to school on the Bart three days a week. It’s my own little personal slice of hour long purgatory, but as of late I’ve noticed something about myself that I’m very fond of.

My hands.

Given the fact that we are now at a technological peak no one is looking up and away from their phones. They don’t talk to each other or even take the hour long ride to sit and to just think. The commute is now a time to sit and to stuff even more fodder into our minds.

Since I started the new school year I have stopped taking my leisurely reading book and laptop with me to campus because it has been giving me back and neck pain. (I’m taking 5 classes and they all require me to take my books to class everyday.) So the only thing I have left to help ease my boredom is my music. I play it off of my phone and by the end of the commute its almost dead, so I try to conserve the battery.

The only thing I have left to look at on Bart, besides an unwanted view of all the standing butts, is my hands.

I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older that my hands are beginning to look more and more like my mothers. Slender wrists with a palm and actual phalanges attached to them. Now, my fingers aren’t long and elegant but they do look like fingers, unlike my fathers side of the family where everyone has paws for hands.

I look at my hands and see my veins beginning to become darker and more visible as time goes on. They look like my mothers and grandmothers more and more every day. They’re becoming thinner, more boney, soft an leathery just as I remember my moms being.

To me it means that I’m doing something right. They’re calloused because I work, they’re strong because I don’t give wimpy handshakes, they’re wrinkled from all the writing I’ve done in my life, and they’re soft because of all the loving I have and have not encountered yet.

These hands have had a life and they continue to live one as I type this food for thought out for you guys right now.

What life have your hands lived, through yours’ or your families?

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Why I haven’t written

It seems that I’ve already broken my promise to post once a week. School surprised me this year with amount of homework it assigned me and I have almost no time to focus on personal time. I hope that those of you who do read my stuff understand. Five classes three days a week has its challenges and often leaves me to fried to much of anything else. I know it is not most teachers intent on overloading their students but it happens more often than not.

For only being a sophomore in college I’ve seen an overwhelmingly large amount of teachers go out of their way to cut the costs of books, supplies, and time so students wouldn’t have to stress so much. Then again I am mostly taking GE courses but that doesn’t discount their consideration towards students.

But thats besides the point, I’m hoping that I will have something up by the middle of next week at the latest.  I appreciate everyone that has liked and read my stories thus far! Please if you have any advice, don’t be afraid to contact me!

The Boy Who Felt

There once was a boy who felt a lot. He did not always understand exactly what it was he felt, though he did know that the feeling was not his. The unspoken word of divorce, the fear of returning home to an angry spouse, or the sadness attached to a barren womb were all feelings he was unfamiliar with. He knew they were unpleasant all the same.
He grew up with is eyes wide open and his hands splayed far. His heart all to heavy and full with concern. All he wished to do was to help ease the burden of others, to let them know that they didn’t have to face life alone.
His efforts to help others only managed to further his own suffering.
“It’s only decent to use my ability to help others isn’t it? Its’ only fair that I comfort them isn’t it?” These thoughts were his only justification for his deterioration.
He did nothing but feel and give. Giving and giving until there was nothing left to give. Shrunken and withered, his heart hung from stringy ligaments in his chest. Overworked, his face had shrunk back behind his cheekbones. Now that he had nothing left, he laid in his bed unfeeling. Those he had given to, gave nothing back in return.
So entirely dedicated to the welfare of others he neglected his own baser needs.
Food, sleep, and affection all pushed aside for the sake of ‘duty’. His natural ability to feel devolved from gift to duty, thus sucking the life from him like one would suck the marrow from a bone.
“If only they could see me now.” He thought.
“They would wonder where life I once had, had gone. ‘It left with a wave and a bow’ I would say. I left no love for myself, you have it all now… but you’re all still so sad…,” faces began to swim before his eyes as he stared at the ceiling. Grinning one second frowning the next. All of them a parade of tragic failure.
“Why is that? I gave you all I had, was it not enough? Was my love not good enough for you all?” Tears had begun to run down his cheeks, cold and frigid. The warmth had left long ago.
“I failed. I failed at the one thing I was meant to accomplish in this life and I don’t get a do-over.” His chest hitched with sob after sob.

Our boy laid there, fully grown and devoid of all his youthful feeling. Born into this world filled to the brim with empathy and love only to leave it empty and unfulfilled…