The Hand

“You will never be happy,” she says with a sad shake of her head.
I protest and smile, as if face muscles turned a certain way reflect accurately the feelings of the soul.

The mind can trick itself into ignoring whatever it wants.
Mental games we play to not stop and feel, but to push down and off and away
that which we can’t look at squarely, like a child covering its face to avoid the scary parts.

I am frozen, unable to proceed not because I don’t want to, but because
I am lost in a vast, desolate desert with no markers to guide me. 

Temptation whispers to sit and rest, and hope that divine or worldly intervention will lay out the path clearly, doing the work that I have tried but cannot complete on my own.

I place my hands in my head, mourning a youth gone and dreams unattained and an increasingly complicated life where the movements throughout the day are not determined by me, but a collective of others making me dance to and fro.

I look up to a hand. How long had it been there? As always I’d been lost in my head, thinking but not feeling, floating above the world, watching from my seat a life inexorably moving forward without me.

The hand pulls me up. It is hers.

It had always been there, I just had never taken the time to notice.