Palm Reading

May 6, 2010

I can see the veins popping up from the backs of my hands. They are blue worms in a nest of mottled pink. I stare at my hands, wondering.
They are as nimble, as capable of creation or destruction as any other. But they are not accountable for their actions, being so easy to manipulate. So many lines traced with a fingernail; lips and jawlines and flesh, sketches and moldings and words. So many memories held in the palms of these hands, but they just drip over the fingers like water.
The hands hold, yes, but without a desire of their own. They wear your rings, they break your bonds, they craft and cut and caress. But they are just hands. They are not the soul of the person, the creativity that drives them, nor the conscience. You cannot blame the hands for their lack of action, their dearth of gentleness, their foolhardy wanderings.
These hands are faultless, scarred maybe, but without blame.


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