writeNOTHING

Digital Story v4 I have my Dad’s hands, hands that love to touch and create and build and rampage.

I lay on the living room floor, legos spread out before me: a sea of plastic possibilites. I hear their call

I feel it in my hands which seem to move of their own accord: searching, grasping, fitting.

My elbows burn as they sink deeper into the carpet. I feel I have it, this love, this need to build order from chaos. to create. Or at least to try. Then, My hands fail, the pieces fly, I feel the rage, the boiling blood and steam I see it as though from a distance, my knuckles white as bone as they clutch what are now only remnants, as they macerate. And my dreams skitter across the room.