Confessions of an Impatient Hand

Sometimes we force things into existence because we want them to exist.

Then they are born sick. A premature baby ripped from the warmth of her mother's womb.

Or a deformed creature. A sideshow act displayed at the local Reptiles Believe It Or Not. A fleece for unsuspecting tourists to gawk at between the snake woman and the two-headed calf.

To will you into existence.

To mold and beat and crush and shape.

To saw and sand and weld and fold.

I want you now.

I don't want to be alone.

I can feel you inside me. You want to come out and I want, no, need to see you before me.

In material form or I will go mad.

I will sleep to stop the throbbing you cause.

How can I just trust?

Don't I deserve agency in this?

At least tell me a joke while I wait.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

…

Where are you?

...

Ok… fine.

I will wait.

I want you to grow big and strong. I want to learn how to hear you. How to understand you.

So I'll sit here waiting.

I will show up every day until you are ready and my water breaks and you come from me in a flood so strong it drowns this body, drowns my world.

That's ok.

My hand is ready.

I bought extra pens just in case.

Stomp on me.

Don't stomp on me.

I am here for you to experiment.

To seduce.

To inspire.

To play with.

To reflect from.

To manifest into material form.

I'm not going anywhere.

This is not a momentary interest.

You think me greedy and I understand why.

You have every reason.

Whenever you met me before, I was greedy.

I wanted the end before the beginning.

I wanted the flow to be a well that never ran dry. A river moving forever down the mountain of my being.

I did not stay long enough to shepherd you.

To commit.

I ran.

Scared of poverty.

Scared of responsibility.

Scared of expectation.

I did not want to give myself to you because I already belonged to too many.

You came to me in many forms.

I know you.

I wasn't ready.

I am ready now.

I want to be reckless.

I want to rip things and bite things and claw at the pages and piss on them if need be.

Let’s jump in deep end first.

No lifeguard on duty.

Swim at your own risk.

If you relax, the water will hold you.

Fight and you sink.

I want each word to be on a blind date with the one that follows it.

Shy.

Hopeful.

Looking for a spark, a recognition.

Knowing the whole time they may remain strangers.

Connected by proximity but not by fate.

Flow my friend.

My lover.

My muse.

I loved you so much.

I miss you.

I promise to break every promise I make to you because I am flawed and so very perfect.

My disinterest.

My attention.

My self-sabotage.

My lazy disgust.

They're all here for you.

You ordered them off the menu.

That is what it is and it is perfect for this task.

If there were another way, some cleaner way than my damaged, unmotivated, disorganized, procrastinating self, perhaps I would do the work for you.

Perhaps I would write my own book.

A research novel with sixty-three edits.

A table of contents.

Order.

Form.

A beginning, middle and end.

An arc.

Yes.

I could do it all. It would be a great success.

But where would you be then?

Who would you visit instead?

I like having you here.

We are good for each other. We can make each other laugh.

And you can't do it without my… hand.

...and the extra pens I bought you.