What is the tone of your writing? Do you feel it in your fingers? Sometimes I feel like my ten digits write the sound of my heart. I allow them free reign upon the playing field of my keyboard. The taps of the keys lessen the stress I feel in my shoulders. My body looks to my fingers for guidance, truer expression of emotion cannot be found.
I wonder if my right hand is angrier than my left. They compete for the middle of the keyboard and joust over space. I feel like putting one in time-out sometimes, but what would I be with only one hand? Would it hinder the sharing of my passion, of my true thoughts? I contemplate this as I feel the need to work my extensions to death. My joints creak with the effort, the effort is worth it though.
The tone of my fingers is the tone of me. I have to believe that as I drive them for more. Always more, my nails reflect the determination of my eyes. And so I continue to write, to share, and to possibly care. It is all my fingers know.
You will never know the pain of being unwanted. The fear of arriving in a foreign world alone and being told that it is now your new home. Not everyone is as lucky as your father was, but luck will never have anything to do with your safety in this world while I am around. Guardian angel take a rest, while I am breathing my daughters will always be watched over.
Our rooms are painted with emotion as we live our life within them. We play our parts well under sun and stars. No script is needed as our hearts spar daily with one another. So passionate is the act our shadows join in the dance. They smile maniacally back at us as they observe the scene of the day. Random House… you present both ends of the essence of feeling and tie our humanity in a knot. Our hands meet and pause while we consider the mood of the moment. Moments spun together presenting life, the life found within the Random House.
How perfect a moment is when it is lived with you. We love our love the way we know how. Others murmur, they come and they go. They pass likes shades in the night as we sit together upon our canoe of love. Floating… we float past our cares and our sorrows. The past can be seen in the dark water below, look up my dear. See the stars as they twinkle and shine a future so open. So real. If you would but take this hand and trust me. We step.
Weightless perfection is captured in suspended beauty. Fearlessness painted in the face of a courageous mask, worn by young braves as they bounce off the walls of reality. Limbs and body as flexible as the will that sends them spinning through the air, they shed their cares with each rotation. Many names for the same act of joy that is clearly pictured in the combinations of life that takes on this art form. Like gladiators they spar with their shadows and attempt to leave their past behind. And with each moment that their two feet hit the ground… another act is soon to follow.
We drink tears in the morning, to hide the face of shame from those that look to us for guidance. I would never wish upon my children a guide that sees only through the sorrow of a continuous torrent. So I hide those emotions with the coming of the sun and sneer in disdain at the weakness that made me break, if only for a moment.
We drink our tears with coffee, tea, and whatever fills our cup in the morning. The bitterness sweetens stronger than sugar and awakens us faster than pain.