I am losing my hands

I+am+losing+my+hands

Whenever I used to hold a pencil, a simple dance would transpire. With my fingers intertwined, fearlessly enveloping its wooden cast, the pencil became a part of my hand. I held onto it tightly, having no regret, no fault.

Each letter I carved out onto the paper below me resulted in clean, precise lines. The incisiveness of the language’s image spoke, making it conspicuous that each letter was intended. Each word was deliberate. Each phrase remained justly imprinted with a certain boldness to it that crept on the edge of insolence.

Clean. Precise. Faultless. That was the nature I embossed into my paper.

I think a part of this intrepidness was the result of my timid character. It was almost as if the fearless part of my mind refused to be exposed verbally, so it sought another outlet to cascade through. But I sometimes wonder if another part of this boldness was a hoax, a mere attempt to prove my efficiency to myself.

I continued my calculated lines, despite their root purpose. I continued holding onto the security of their thoughtfulness. That was what I strived to sustain, and it eventually became a habit.

I managed to sustain my precision, until I didn’t.

Slowly, my grasp loosened, and I began to trip in the midst of my dances. My grip forgot the familiarity of attentive detail and instead steered towards loosened scribbles.

Each word was no longer distinct; the words fell into one another, creating a mesh of phrases. Letters became connected, and spaces occasionally lost their standings.

Even as my pencils shortened and my hands grew restless, I ignored my lack of precision. But underneath my aloof, my boldness drained out of my letters, seeping into a lousy puddle that doused my feet.

I am leaking, but my skin refuses to shed. ”

All I am left with now is a vulnerable pool of who I once was, and I can admit that I sometimes do not enjoy bathing in my own remains. However, even though my hand is withered and my fearlessness is dying, I am not ashamed. I am leaking, but my skin refuses to shed.

My lines may lack the precision they once demonstrated, but they shouldn’t be completely degraded. My writing has lost its structure, but my words still remain, even with all of their flaws and skittish marks.

My lines may not be flawless or concise any longer, but they are still lines despite their hollowed shells.