Because, you see, I thought once clawing was the way to survive. Imagine me on the precipice of a mountain. I have just fallen and I cling with everything I have in me, my nailbeds seperating from my fingers because I'm trying so hard. Really the only way to survive is to reach for a hand and cry out that we aren't invincible, that we aren't immune to or above the need of being approved, tried, and tested...that we aren't islands of self-sufficient men and women created to look out for number one.
We were born to need.
I could wait to post these pictures. I could get a manicure because nobody wants to see the ugly. I could hide the swelling and pretend I am not in pain. I could angle the calluses out of view and pretend I am not over-working them out of pure drive of a calling greater than skin and bones.
The work of our hands shows in the wear of our hands. The knobs that form tell a story of what we care about the most. The tilt of our chins speak volumes of how many we will include. The deepness of our eyes is where the love of Something Greater is found, the thermometer of our warmth, the barometer of moisture in our souls, the tell-tale of what we will give out of our purest state.
So when our age finds us and our faces own plenty of crevices able to hold all the jealousy and bitterness in the world, and our hands are beyond repair, and we've nothing left to do but sit and think about yesteryear, we will remember by looking at them that we kept our nails short so as not to hurt the ones whose we held, that we let every ounce of bitterness mix and fall with every milliliter of salty tears...the tears that need to fall because, we know better. We know better than to think we are better, don't we? Filing nails are choices, such that iron sharpens iron into curves conducive to love.
After all the callused hands are those that build bridges.
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