The callouses on my palms
speak of daily labor,
the weight of tools and hours stretching long,
hands that ache but keep moving,
gripping, pulling, lifting—
muscles sore, skin raw,
yet there is something simple in the rhythm
of this work,
a quiet certainty in the bending of wood
or the turning of a *****.
But inside,
the mind churns—
thoughts collide like a thousand hammers,
clanging against each other in the silence.
I cannot hold them,
cannot grasp or shape them
the way I do with my hands.
Each thought is a jagged piece
that shifts just when I think I have it.
The struggle in my hands is known,
familiar, tangible.
The struggle in my mind is endless,
slipping through my fingers like water,
pulling at me with no end in sight,
a puzzle with no solution
that I’ve learned to carry
but never set down.
When I walk away from the work,
my hands are sore but satisfied.
I can see what I’ve built,
what I’ve touched,
the progress of my labor marked in the world around me.
But the mind—
it never stops,
never rests.
The weight of its questions
hangs in the air like smoke
and I breathe them in
again and again,
wondering
if I'll ever be free
from the things I cannot fix
with my hands.