It is coming closer now — the inevitable — wait, what kind of an empty statement is this? What illusions you find yourself living in! — what a hollow clack clack these keys make — waiting for life to arrive tomorrow or through the mechanical monotonous smashing of keys on a laptop — I want to use my hands — my hands — was horrified to feel how unused they were for pen holding, rusty at writing, my first love — how long has it been since I’ve made handwritten journaling my life’s work — the only reason I wanted to digitalize my life was convenience and commerce — I want everything turned into something, I want everything searchable, useful — because I am scared of being of no use, perhaps — scared of simply existing and trusting that that’s enough to warrant me living here on earth — how we’ve domesticated our animals with our modern conveniences so that we don’t have to fear this terror — but then we also miss out on the secret gift reserved only for those who play beyond the pale — beyond the shining high-rises and machines — who bury their hands in the soil and feel her moist warmth, take her under their nails, feel the pulse of life meet the pulse of life in your fingertips — spread roots and plant them, water them, knowing they’ll grow without your machinations, plans or cleverness — bowing to the earth you will receive your inheritance — the soil will yoke your soul to matter, to take your rightful place in the human bloodline that cubicles and conveniences sever you from — the sound and vibration of ink on paper, wrought by your artfulness — this is the great secret, that there’s no other way to remember fully who you are until you remember that you know exactly how to use your hands — you are from a lineage of hands — your family crest, daughter of Neil, the sons of Ulster, the Red Hand — raised valiant in Love and War — don’t forget, your hand is the hand of the creator and the destroyer — it’s your heart out on a limb — it wants to caress the flesh, the flowers, your beard, my love — it wants to write boldly on paper — and risk being chopped off — it will be chopped off — for no one has stood in the way you will stand for Love without being cut down — and this too is your inheritance — your namesake, Laura Lámh, O’Neill, to risk the hand in Love, for Soul, and return it to the Soil whence it came — there are other ways, but no other way worth its weight in gold.