Of hands

It fascinates me how our body, something this personal, can carry the results of a whole species.
Sometimes I keep watching my hand, playing with all the moves it can make, with all the possible tools it can become. And then I wonder of all our evolution, the movements our ancestors kept doing to make it slowly become what it is now. I wonder how much effort and time was need for every detail to set down like it is today. I wonder how much times someone had to hold a rounded object to make it perfectly easy for my hand to hold one.

I wonder of the role hands, they all like mine, played throughout History. Whole lives spent holding swords, hoes, writing tools. All the delicacy of the art, the violent strength of the war, all made possible by our hands. Every building built by working, scarred hands. Every building climbed secretly by nervous hands to meet the pale, soft ones. Hands attached together in a moment of passionate intensity. Every building, destroyed by vicious hands. All lives hands slashed, all lives hands healed. Hands used to denounce, hands used to hide. Honest and false handshakes, mostly a political agreement.
Hands that, with an added amount of prideful strength, push up your fallen, shamed body. Stretched out hands claiming for one helping hand. Faithless hands falling down in abandon. Hands lying silent. Hands forever unable to change the world.