Story is the enemy of the artist

My hand is a special, or should I say not a thing, but a resonance

this resonance seems to call to me

or I should say, I feel as if I am called to it

it does not really care about me, it is just there, to my disposal

but when I am living within it, when I am absorber by it’s tasks

it seems to bring inside ma a sense of belonging, of peace. like nothing is really there anymore

as i am writing this, i feel my hands dance on the keyboard, hitting each notes as if they are enjoying it. they are definately not masters at it, because if they where, I would’nt need my eyes

but there is also something unique about my eyes

and more definitely my eyes in relationship to my hands

what is it about y eyes that seem to resonate?

I am not sure anymore

I feel like all my life was my eyes, like if I it took over everything else

like if my eyes became the perpetrator of my mind’s wishes

never my hands

my hands where never meant to receive, that can only give

and there is something that attracted me about that aspect

my hands certainly feel

but the feeling that my hands provide me, do not in any way excite me

my eyes however, can only judge

they can only fix

maybe it is the way they have been trained

to observe, analyze, and fix

but are they really what they where meant for?

my eyes where mean for me to see

but I do not wish to see

not in the literal sense

but the figurative sense however, that is something else

I wish to see

see and understand or i would say just see

the truth

or reality

or live

I wish to live

i cant say this word without insulting the true meaning of it

as if it was highjacked, like my eyes, but sticky mud

it is creeping back in

this thing

taking back it’s place

as if there is so much of it, that it can just fill back in 

the emptiness

the void

the clear sky

since it has had this space for such a long time

that it doesn’t even bother ask, or wait for an invitation

it comes back, like bone cells fill a blood cloot

it doesn’t ask if it can or can not

and surprisingly, there is a hidden irony

my heart wants to laugh, when it hears this

it wants to scream at me,

a warning

its waiving its hands to get my attention

but the glass is so thick

the glass is so opaque

that I can not really see it

as if if I would see it, i would begin to laugh

there is a tragic and comedic misunderstanding

tragic because it is death

comedic because it is nothing