It's that hand in the strings of my soul, winding them casually around careless fingers, idle play that tightens and frays all the cords inside.
It's a four-year-old turned loose on a precise old instrument in a quiet room, pounding away with fists and abandoned glee as the tuning slowly disappears.
It's the feather-light caress of a breeze caused by the whisper-soft touch of paper against paper in a pile high as an elephant's knee and rising like a tide of three-hole-punched-white-and-blue-lined waves coming again and again, endless as any ocean.
It's looking at a calendar with filled with missed deadlines, with other people's urgencies, pencil in hand, trying to make space for what used to be me, what used to be important, and realizing that there is not one millimeter left in which that which was once mine can be wedged in.
It's the precise and deliberate cleaning tool, a subtle knife that trails with loving and careful strokes down me, pairing me away to the essentials, and then rasps those away, too. I give it life, purpose. I am its maker, its art.
It's walking across the thin-ice, running-cracked-glass arena floor upon which I perform daily and both praying that I don't slip and somehow desiring that today be the day that it all shatters out from under me and lets me just finally feel the relief of falling free at last, devil-take-the-hindmost and every-man-for-himself.
It's watching with fascination as the machinery is wound and wound and wound, unable for no reason that is understandable to stop turning the key despite knowing what will happen, and still marveling at the musical sound it all makes as gears jam, springs reach their final point of tension, and the unsteady and relentless ticking is finally stilled.
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And then you said.....