Today I am not able to feel my fingers.

My shoulders have been spasming all day and I can feel the muscles forming themselves into something resembling a sailors knot or a slip knot that will come undone when it is ready.

My right hand feels numb as the spasms move themselves down my arm; maybe there wasn’t enough room for them in my shoulders; maybe the spasms are like an infection that moves inside of me, targeting a different place each day?

I move my fingers along the table in front of me, slowly as if I were caressing it. I can feel tingles and needles again, those hateful needles that haunt me.

I know my fingers are there because I can move them, I can see them. I move them in front of my face, marveling at the face that I can’t feel them. They are like ghost fingers, someone elses fingers and I wonder if I can make them do things that I normally wouldn’t.

I feel like my fingers have been dipped in fingerpaint, perhaps blue as it’s a nice colour, that is numbing and dulling the sensatinos I would normally be feeling.

I flex my hands and wonder who they belong to.