pixelated.me

my hands are smooth. My girlfriend says she likes my touch. the way the feel on her skin. She usually say's this as the caress the territory between the nape of her neck and the small of her back.

My hands have held pens, clacked over a multitude of keyboards, sent text messages,
they've given pleasure and on very view occasions caused physical pain.
My hands have kept me warm. They've walked with me through harsh new york winters but only for the few minutes i'd brave the cold to go buy a magazine or a cup of coffee.
My hands have assembled ikea furniture and cursed the person who invented torque screw screwable furniture.
My hands have carried furniture and heavy boxes as i've moved from one idea of home to another.
my hand's have stopped my mothers hand from striking my face (an action she felt was disrespectful), my hands changed my baby brothers diapers, my hands wrote fake notes in my mothers name to ditch school and skip gym class.
my hands have given comfort, congratulations, and condolences.

Yet, despite, in spite, or because of these things my hands have done i feel like they haven't done enough. They haven't made things, crafted things, they haven't built things, my hands have avoided these things by deftly using ATM cards to pay others to do these things. But tonight my hands for the first time felt the need to forge,craft,mold, something, anything, so that i can look at my hands one day and say these hands made this. It may only be a tiny this, a trivial this, a trinket some future someone will wonder as to it's importance.

something more than words on a page which is usually no longer a page at all but pixels upon pixels arranged as the facsimile of words on a page.