Words don’t come easy on you, not always. Occasionally you have thoughts appearing so bright and clear that stick with you for days even though you didn’t write them down. It’s like having a neon light inside your head, a non stop glow going on and off shouting “don’t forget me”. Most of the times, all you have are glimpses, ghost-like thoughts hovering in your head not willing to fully unveil themselves, giving you nothing more but faint hints of what lies beyond. Then the struggle begins. You write whatever comes in mind, in no particular order, words, small sentences and even full paragraphs if it’s a good day.
It’s hard to keep a flow in your writing. You begin with an idea and then you let it go with an ease that sometimes frightens you, but you have the ability to come back to it days after, picking up from where you left it, and start over again, writing three pages down. It’s a messy process but somehow it works well for you. Your notebook is full of scribbles, arrows pointing back and forth, asterisks marking new additions. It’s like a bombed battlefield with scattered words all around and wounded sentences that need taking care of in order to fully function. You tremble, every time, you’re gonna lose the fight and all you have against the mighty words is your own bare hand. Vladimir Nabokov wrote in Pale Fire “the hand supports the thought” but thoughts are usually faster than your hand, they slip away before the hand manages to transfer them onto paper. And you force your hand so that you can make it to the next phrase, the next line, the next page.
Your hands. You don’t quite like them, most of the times they seem to you ugly and rough. Nervous hands with visible veins, sometimes so intense like roots crawling under your skin, not the gentle hands a woman should have. Deep down you know it’s just a stereotype you need to get over with, but you can’t seem to find a way to do so, hence the difficulty of accepting them for what they truly are: your own hands. You will never have any others, they will never be something else than what they already are. Sure, they have changed over the years, you can see the passing of time over them, and they will most certainly change some more in the years to come, but their essence will never be altered.
Your hands. You look at them with a newly born affection. They have so many lines, more lines than you could ever possibly count, short ones, long ones, intersecting each other or simply coexisting in parallel ways, ultimately creating a unique pattern that is completely yours and as you try to decipher its organic complexity you notice your scars. The little finger on your left hand has a cut by a broken porcelain mug reminding you of a cold and lonely winter in Tuscany years ago, another life who’s path remained unshaped. The fourth finger of your right hand has also a cut in the shape of an almost perfect circle caused by a broken glass of wine, a mundane cut bearing no emotionally charged memories, but an unforgettable one due to a serious amount of bleeding. On the same hand, the nail of your middle finger has a slight deformation caused by - how ironic - the way you used to hold the pen as a child, putting too much pressure on it.
You still do that, not only when it comes to writing. You put too much pressure on your self, trying to be perfect in your effort to match the standards you’ve been given by others. But you have come to realise there is no such thing as perfection in life and the only possible way of being is listen to your inner voice and respect yourself with the hope that a day will come when you will be able to fully accept and love your hands.