The palm of my hand is wrinkled even though the years I have been spending under the light remain modest. It carried the heaviest things and had stumbled upon soft skins and silky hair. Its traced lines meant to describe my lifeline assure me of my humanity. Which tarot deck will be able to read my future?

Their tint seems to never vary. Protected from the sun, I sometimes wonder if black magic keeps them so pale. Five long fingers connect to it, ready to grasp, to hold and pray. The palm of my hand is reluctant to what was built by humans. It gets dry from the soap and the chemical products. It despises public transport, their iron pole full of everyone’s germs of arrogance. My hand is an empress who needs to stay away from reality. Instead, it prefers to be tapped by the wind or command the grass to bend under its caring pressure.

The feeling of the water flowing on it connects every cells and nerve to a high satisfaction. The water is life, so is my hand, which reminds me of the essential. The beauty of cherry blossom petals and their delicate texture. The chilliness of the snowflakes fallen from their kingdom of clouds and air. The crinkled bark of the tree which has seen all the dimensions and stands ahead of the world. The palm of my hand is nature and guide me to more nature. To other hands sometimes. The heart pulse of a loved one can be listened through their extremities and read by my grip. Their bind reminds me of the most important thing in the world, a human being to care about.

I wish the palm of my hand to always be tightened to the one of someone else. Someone I feel close to and will never let go from my frenetic heart pulse. If this fear would happen to be, the nails would come to control with violent moon marks the earthly desire of my palm to go find this hand again.