Hands That Make

From the heart, energy rips though the veins down the major lines connecting the arms. Pure intent racing with every beat. A tender finger the first contact of the mind. Nerves spring forth sending messages up and down wrapping the moment whole together. Tender, yet firm motion. A man writing words made to be sweet. Thoughts and imaginations forever written in 1s and 0s. 

Down the weathered router, lines connecting to the wider world sending a glimpse of a man. A man with a personal vision, and a warm heart that sees the glowing streaks of sunrise. Major districts of computers receive the signals. Storing truth into nonsense encryption to be made sense with every request. Written stories stored side by side with virtual powerhouses. Among the trillions of virtual homes vying for attention. Glass shops made of pure thoughts selling wares both new and old. Trendy futures begging to be treasured. A hopeful fire ready to spark, and capture the scene as the old one dies down.

He writes. Putting down the simple things. Only simple means so much more. Layers upon layers of cascading thoughts. Perceptions peering at different characteristics. Attributes being known, and then forgotten. Rock and roll. The beat. The drums. His mind captures it all. Singing within, his fingers touch the keyboard. Pressing in like he was jamming the world down. Only with no buddies to play with. Years of worry, and of searching leading not to logic, but to echos. Echos of truth still traveling. Soaking up as much as possible for one day. Then sleeping. Smiling at the new age. Wishing for the still peace to soar with his aspirations. 

Here is language. Encompassing every aspect, every shape. Describing more than data graphs or contemporary art. It is free, and always genuine. Real as any soul could be. One word spoken through hands that move over a piano of symbols. What is natural for the man today did not appear within the day of birth. A fight over a life sentence of self-education. Pushing through waves of information. Roaring while catching salt water. Coughing, spitting and then gritting. Grinning over and over hoping to catch his pride. Only sinking skinned the hide of his hope. Raw crackled down lines as the salt poured in. Slowing the healing to a stop. Pushing down only led to sinking. He sought knowledge by studying the waves hoping to surf. Balance did not come. Neither did the years stop coming. Until reaching near the age of prime did learning come. The waves were never the teacher. His own soul within taught as experience came. Commanding his own breath just within. He let go of the waves and the gravity of time. Diving into the mental surface. Allowing the being within to manifest. Owning the waves as feet found their voice. Surfing not with water, but with words of his own mind.

Down came the sun. Bursting upon the past. Healing the trauma making the past seemed inevitable. The long age of his own desperate seeking came to an end. The new era of wonderful design. Free to act. Free to choose. Free to love. Free to listen to the music within. Bringing endless opportunities to genuinely smile with hands raised up.

Words are not bounded by the tongue, or the mind nor the pen. They are everywhere. Within countless containers. Hands plucking strings. Hands forming clay. When a purpose touches the metal, the lifeless rock is the vessel of thought. It sings to all those who will hear. Words are simple in everything. Waiting to speak its own story.

Writing is the man’s call sign. The center piece of the story of hands that will make. As life is freed from external logic, he writes down the thoughts of his heart. Allowing the words to be heard in stillness of his own private life. Hands that work to sing is heard alone. Alone so joy can be the one who sings. An age of seeking led to clear knowledge that everything is within. Not without.

Music is heard everywhere. In the nerd’s computer code, and in the drumming strings. In the container of silence, within the resistive quiet, is a mortal voice that speaks. Speaking its thoughts to form something new. To hear, just pay more attention within your working hands. Unseen colors is felt rather than seen. Subtle sounds will grow distinct as the barrier within breaks. Allowing genuine smiles to creep up. Some will notice. Others will not. What is better than a personal dream that cannot die by the logic of others? Because you listen as much as you sing. Giving both needs a endless supply. A continuous loop that gives itself meaning. That is Stasis. Time cannot touch, nor notify any sort of end. It will go on as long as the player keeps playing. Pure meaning that satisfies in the simplest way possible. Like checkmate from a chess master. Except, logic is a wasteful thought. You do not need logic to be yourself. Just your own permission to act with instinct. Instincts that will progress and evolve as it levels up with experience.

The man who writes found his path. A path forward to the evolving dream. Journey connecting the running paths. Every echo a little different. Fetching something new. Yet beneficial to a life rich with growth.


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