Tonight, as the light of the lamp flickers and dances off my wrists, I catch something that brings an essence of melancholy into the otherwise cheerful atmosphere. I see my veins. They break off into seperate paths, still connected to one main supporter, almost like branches on a tree in the middle of October. They reach. They yearn. They cry. But what. What is it they so desperately desire that not even the forces of nature themselves can damper their eternal longing. The hands. The hands represent freedom. Freedom to move. Freedom to touch. Freedom to experience. As I sit here tonight and stroke my veins, trying relentlessly to ease them with comfort, I can’t help but wonder. Is my allusion of being a “hand” really just denial that’s embedded in my forever longing state of the imprisonment that is being a vein? Or is being a “vein” even really a bad thing. After all, there is no match for the determination in which they represent.
God is good.