Time For The Bloody Hands to Sing

         Time is precise and coherent. The definition of time itself is irreversible. Nothing can stand in the way of this powerful force. Unless you are like me, and believe that time can stop at any given moment. Tragedies are those little, tiny Sharpie-drawn imperfections on a ticking clock. An imperfection varies for every clock.

         Some may say they know of several clocks that do not have that one line or even a dot of black marker on its surface anywhere. I ensure you though, that there are scratches, dents, fingerprints, and indescribable traces of events on every clock that ticks. When the clock strikes 12 some say Cinderella's fairytale wish expires. Yet if you actually know of the tale, her story never settles to a stop. True love finds a way for everything to be all right. At least that is what we'd like to believe.

         Applying this to real life, it does make sense in a way.When a person dies their story doesn't necessarily have to end. Through the pumping veins of an inherent, the story is transferred.The more you think about it, you seem to realize we are all undoubtedly connected as human beings. If I am crazy then so are you, my friend. We should probably grab a bite to eat and sip some tea. After all, we are one in the same.

         Oh, but the jury objects! We are people, all the same, with different qualities and tastes- so be it. As a juror stands, the world goes silent. He says that our compelling stories make for an argumentative debut against all the straightforward ideas in our utopian society. He congratulates us on our observation, but lets us in on a secret. Every life is not only a separate story, but one grand story of humanity itself with sub-plots as abundant as the stars in the universe.

         The crowd is speechless overall, but whispers soon begin and rumors spread nearly as fast as the speed of a god-sent message. The judge puts rest to this with a swift blow of his gavel to the base as the choir jumps out of shock. One town's mayor steps forward and shares an allegory of a boy with bloody hands. No one knew why he was not present among humanity this day. The townspeoples say he was hiding in a cave, and when told of the gathering he mocked society for attempting to sort the definition of life itself.

         No one understood him. Liars say he killed his own family. The royal say he is a servant solely to our desires. Children secretly murmur among themselves that he may seem cold-hearted, but my-oh-my is he generous and bright! It was I who asserted we should not judge his bloody hands. Fortunately, my words were taken to heart. After all, it was also I who got to the conclusion that our story never passes. So we agreed to visit this notorious man in his cave.

         I was one of the first to enter the dimly-lit cave, authoring goosebumps to anyone who would step foot inside. He came out from hiding immediately to greet us angrily. His specific words, however, were drowned out by those calling him names. I could not help but stare at his figure. He was a normal human, but in his eyes were secrets he only knew and a life that will more than likely be prominent in our shared storybook. Subsequently, he stared at me. He did not even glance his way towards the others in the cave.

         I believe that right then and there time stopped. I wished I could stop this madness and say the words that were climbing up my throat. I wished I could touch him. I wished to turn over his hand, examine his palm for the dripping blood accredited to his reputation. I wished I could tear down the wall enclosing us, because they were nothing more than a facade. I wished to show him that I care and I would like to understand the truth. I wished to prove to everyone that he was not what he appeared to be.

         Once the clock brushed along past the mark, smudge, dent, or whatever blemish it may be, he stepped towards me. The clock finally did thump along, though. I am sure of that since there was movement of others around me and also the wind stroking my face as he crept closer; all was silent in our world. "Show me your hands," he slowly spoke in a delicate voice that was inconsistent to the one I heard from before. When I had my palms facing upwards, he immediately showed his own. The reception of the present people was disapproving. Mothers covered their child's eyes. Teens gasped and huddled together, doing anything but looking at his hands.

         They were different alright! Yet they were perfectly imperfect. I saw all the blemishes of his personal clock in his very own, personal hand. He told me a secret that no one even suspected. Time shows its suffering on human bodies. The eyes show fatigue and heartache. The hair shows care, or lack of, and various forms of misery. The lines on the face, which I have not seen until now, show every event ever endured. Everything tells the story of time itself. Everything sings aloud the words unspoken. The words we were taught not to say or believe in. They all chant a lyric or an entire stanza of pain and obstacles to be overcome.

         I told everyone to leave the cave. To my dismay, all obeyed. I found myself on the floor, heaving for air and clenching my sides. He explained to me what I saw on his hands. They were decorative creases. Some suggested where are fingers naturally bend at. While others were just a mystery to me that I even wondered why they served a purpose. No blood dripped from them. He mentioned that he was created this way. Alas, like he said before, every blemish told the song of his life. To new-age folks, the palm prints are not foreign concept, but imagine having blank hands. I had nothing to tell my story.

         "Now give me your hand." He said as he outstretched his. I covered my mouth and told him he was bleeding. "Don't worry, I have been told it only happens at certain instances. I'm pretty sure carving prints into another hand is one of those instances." I was hesitant for him to take any of my hands. I was shaking in my fear and began to cry like any other human would have done in that situation. He knelt down next to me. "I did not know your kind is also immune to bleeding. Well, when you become real, your blood is rushing through your veins, pumping into your heart- all keeping you alive. You will be alive for the first time, and if God permits so, you shall live forever."

         He revealed what he called a knife. As he blindly but eloquently drew into my hand with it, he laughed, reciting it should only be used in certain circumstances, never for self-harm. He did imply I will understand these issues much later. My ideas of the world were jumbled together, but slowly being sorted the farther along we got in the process. Once it was over, blood was pouring. I screamed. I had no idea how to deal with such a sight! He told me to calm down. My company brushed his thumb against mine causing blood to wipe away. Before more surfaced, I saw beauty in the wrecked life I gave up. There were circles overlapping one another. When I looked at his, I was shocked to fine nothing was the same on our hands, but that we were imprinted. "Different people, different stories."

         You may have heard that no two fingerprints are alike and will no two ever be alike. It's true! I witnessed the miracle firsthand. I still live in the cave with the man whose name shall be protected for all time(as well as my own name). We used to travel the world together, in search of others who possessed potential to become real. These others received their prints and dwell with us to this day. However, to this day, we're not viewed as anything special. Everyone is real now. There is no use for carvers.

         However, there is one girl who learned where fingerprints really came from. On one of our travels, I saw her and I knew she was something special. She told us she was just abandoned, so she lived with us for a few days until we dropped her into society's hands. When she knew the truth, she wrote a song. It was a song without us asking. It's about our hearts and how our bloodstream rushes straight to it. The song allowed her to make a name for herself and with this new-found popularity, she told the world of a legend. The legend of carvers. If you ask me, her song captured the idea I once spoke of perfectly. If your hands are bloody, let them sing for the world to hear.