My Hands. My Fingers.

This sudden numbness in my arms has made me rather anxious.

As I write this I have strapped my thumb to my index finger. It kept brushing dully against the computer track pad. The tightly wrapped gauze leaves the fingertips purplish and thumping.

It is not complete paralysis, they twitch and ache and sometimes do according to my instructions.
My hands. My fingers.
No real tactile feedback, though. I do not recognise any sensation of touch as one of my own. That troubles me. Perhaps it is the scabs, the scaling mounds of tissue? The trickling substances I am producing as well, making my grip slippery and shampoo-like, sludgy?

Or perhaps it is the nerve ends themselves becoming entwined, leeched upon by the tube structured saprophyte now mimicking my peripheral nervous system? I am cursed to still be subject to this keyboard and its slippery keys.
My hands. My fingers.
Time slips in here. The hours drip and seep and pile up, just like the word count and the page number shifts hallucinogenically.

A moment ago this patch around my knuckles wasn’t there, I’ll swear to it.
My hands. My fingers.
I’m not extracting. Not falling apart. No, I deform and contort. An adding of substances, components, links and joints – all other to my generic makeup.

That must be the main reason for this aching and agitation. The meds don’t work and the constant push notifications on neurological exercises haven’t helped either.

I check my body regularly. Does it spread?

I have been spending more and more time out there, studying the digits, the stock charts, the risk assessments, interests and estimates. Studying the program descriptions, the assessment criteria, the risk calculations, the epistemic value and contributive factors.

And now this amphibian limb is growing just above my elbow joint and I swear I felt sets of teeth just beneath the soft skin of my palm.

We all have soft hands now.