Hola.

There’s an orange sitting right across me. It curves in the right places. It hugs you warmly. 

Sometimes my hands tremble uncontrollably. I’ve probably said this many times. Sometimes it scares me. It’s the caffeine I say. So I had to write something, anything, to stop the shaking, before anyone sees and asks. I hate questions. Don’t query. Leave me alone. My hands seem to shake uncontrollably. Maybe it’s my vision that amplifies that shaking but they need to move -  to do something. So I make them type. Like this. These words that fail to make sense are all the doing of my hands that wont stop tying. They. Won’t. Stop. Even though I tried long ago to silence them. To shush them. it doesn’t work. They refuse to rest; they refuse to leave the keyboard. Although I’ve, somewhat stopped them from grabbing the pen, the pencil, the utensil.  I’m quite cruel sometimes. No one knows, or perhaps everyone knows. Yet they refuse to stop, they want to marathon out of here. They want to melt words. They want me to move in and move out. They want me to pursue that which they’ve been waiting for, what I’ve been wanting. They somehow know more than I let on. They know me more than I admit to myself. These hands that are my grandmas hands: brown and wrinkly. I remember the first time they touched that grass, remember? They never felt more alive, until I again made them pull the weeds and the dive in naked palms first. They never felt more alive. The garden was left prim and a little bit ugly. A crew cut at best, but they never felt more alive.