I watch myself on the glass mirror infront of me as i run the water on the yellowish sink. The mirror was old and rustic with some of the silver pieces falling off the edges. the frail light from the overhead flourescent was enough to show, or rather hide the gritty tiles.
I held my hands under the faucet, fixated at the sight of the water running through my fingers. Stooping down, with handfuls of cold clear water, my face tingled at sudden change of temperature. I held my hands to my face for a moment, then look down on my hands once again.
I remember a good friend once said, that when a man decides to take only what his closed fists could hold, and have nothing more than that, and nothing more of the world would offer. then he dedicates the rest of his life in the pursuit of these handful of causes, then he is free..
My hands are now weary. Calloused. Scarred. Ugly. Clenched as tight as it can as it tries to hold on to something that doesnt want to be held.. feeling each trickling water slip through the open ended and broken crevices over, and over, and over, and over..
