As I sit, pencil between my fingers, I encourage my hands to pick up right where they left off. It can’t possibly be that hard to draw – it had only been a year or so since my hands were expected to work creatively. When my hands finally pressed the soft graphite to the paper seated in my lap, my fingers twitched and swirled in all the wrong directions. I guess it could be hard for my digits to pick up where they had been left. 

As my fingers goofed off all around the page, I sighed with disappointment. Faces that were once familiar took hours to even sketch, curves that once felt so natural now twisted in all the wrong directions, and sharp points were dulled into sad lumps. Soon after looking at the mess my hands created, my fingers took to typing. Typing how to fix my useless hands, typing how to find those once familiar faces, typing how to reteach my hands to draw all over again. 


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