by Julian Neuer
My fingertips possess fantastic powers.
The power to skip and hop over these keys, to form words and sentences, to surprise and amuse readers, even when the readers are just me.
The power to slide and dance over this trackpad, to trace lines and shapes, to enlarge and reduce them, to fill figures and backgrounds, to fill — to try to fill — empty spaces in life.
From my fingertips emerge laser rays, burning sparks, electronic ectoplasm, bucket-filled color gradients. Visible magic.
From my fingertips come the motions to conduct invisible orchestras, the cues to direct the actors planted in the crowd.
My fingertips set the pace. My fingertips point to destinations.
I raise my hands and they turn into long branches, reaching all the way to the clouds. Birds come to rest on my fingers, to converse, to plan their migrations. At night, when the birds are gone, my fingertips tickle the stars.
I let my arms fall to my sides, my hands dig deep into the ground. My roots grow so fast that they emerge on the other side of the world, only to meet the sky again. On my fingertips perch tall mountains, giant waves, fiery dragons, rising suns.
It’s been a long day. Back home, my head is heavy. I rub my eyelids with my fingertips and fall asleep. Now it’s time to dream.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Collage by Julian Neuer.