Digital Story v4.1 Sunday 1:32 pm (since the dates on this cursed blog are so messed up)
I have my Dad’s hands, hands that love to touch and create and build
and rampage.
I lie 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 come to a boil, screaming through my veins.
I see myself from a distance, knuckles white as bone as they clutch what are now only remnants,
as they macerate.
And my dreams skitter across the room.