Hands

This bit started out as a bit of stream of consciousness writing and ended up being a mildly coherent piece. The topics of though, as can be seen early on, are my hands.


I don’t know where I am. The area’s familiar, but disconnected confusion abounds. The colors seem different, the shapes somewhat off. Staring at my hand I realize that’s not what I’m see at all. With my head full of a mist that flows out one ear and into the other I can’t realize what my pin holes are fixated on. No focus. There’s only a blurred pink fleshy shape that’s supposed to be connected to my body. And my head, the control center, the viewing room, it floats above; looking down on this immobile growth, this appendage atop appendage. Seeping oils. I touch a piece of paper and contaminate it with my natural degenerative, acidic human oils. As time passes, that paper won’t exist because of me. The pin holes send messages of irritation to the fleshy electronic core. As the whites become red, with the shudders closed, the growth rubs the holes. I still don’t know where I am. This irritation, this desire for rest spreads down my craned neck. Stiff from activity. Stiff from existing. Creased, cracked, faded, peeling, red, pink, blue, soft, callused. This “hand” is a rather disturbing thing. A central core which sprouts five oddly misshapen digits. These digits are meant to stretch, reach, and crawl over everything in reach. Their insidious goal, possibly unknown to the floating head watching, is to spread its poison. Touch as much as possible to aid in the slow degradation of all tings physical. Touch, rub, grope, claw, grab, massage, pick, pinch, flick. Anything to give others what is ours. Anything to forcibly infect all we touch. I can see the blue veins, the veins convicted of collaborating with the hand, which supplies its life fluid. Blood pumps in each and every extended bone stick. The constant flushing of red isn’t felt, but its presence is known. It is the silent rebellion against the all seeing head. The cells, the conspirators bent on revolution against any good intentions He Who Floats may have. But wait, what’s this? Another conspirator? No, he looks exactly like the other only slightly different. This hand, the soldier of defiance, wields a strange device; a device which somehow knows His thoughts. He is the same, but different. He seems to be helping. Translating thought into a series of characters on paper, while the other continually touches, trying to destroy the newly formed ideas. Perhaps this Right, as I’ll call him, will help. Perhaps He is a sleeper agent intent on betraying and doing exactly as Left does. Perhaps I’ll never know. Perhaps I don’t know where I am.