You called, and we answered

My hands worry over things, separate from the rest of me. That's all I am, a series of broken parts bolted together. I can't dance, because my legs only remember how to march. I can't draw, because my hands only remember how to tremble.

They sang a song across the world, across this tiny globe, and amidst our haze and melancholia, we answered. A low, droning, apathetic chord. Dripping with our own self-pity, we called back, like a rising tide. I was just one voice in that tide. I was just one drop. Back and forth, we rolled across the sea.

And I remembered, in this wandering thought, just how close we were. How heaven and Earth, were for that moment, separated by little more than a line drawn on an imaginary map. A legacy, I suppose, we embraced with our own tendency to draw lines where none existed before.

I heard God is an Angry God. I heard he also Loves. And how so I hear in divinity, it's very much a human. I have angry words for the Angry God. And I question love of the God who Loves. I ask as well, if his hands worry as mine do, or if that is merely a failing of mortals.

I heard there was hope for people. But they draw lines. Ever more lines. What is theirs. Their own. Each their own. Everything must be divided and divided yet again. I have heard that people are angry, and yet they also love. I imagine that there's yet another imaginary line between the two. One can love with just as much passion as one hates. And the two are just a blink apart.

And yet here I am. A drop on a tide that reverberates back and forth between both. Perhaps I'm a mark on an imaginary line. Perhaps I'm a border that will one day cease to be. Perhaps I'm between two things that forgot they're one and the same.