🫱🫲 The Parable of the Left and Right Hands.

🫱🫲

Once, in the beginning, the Body was whole and silent. The Left Hand and the Right Hand lived in harmony, each unaware of the other’s name. They moved as one, danced as one, like temples of shadows and light.

But one day, the Left Hand discovered a mirror.

It gazed into the glass and saw the Right Hand waving back. “Imposter!” cried the Left. “You mimic me, mock me, mirror me!”

The Right Hand, startled, replied, “No - I am you, only reversed.”

Thus began the Great Division. The Left Hand wrote manifestos of independence. The Right Hand painted flags of symmetry. They refused to touch, refused to share, refused to clap.

The Body suffered. It could no longer cradle dreams or open doors. It dropped its tools, its prayers, its loves.

One night, in a dream, the Left Hand reached across the chest and found the Right Hand waiting. They touched - not in battle, but in bewilderment.

And in that moment, the Body wept. Not from pain, but from the happiness of wholeness.

From then on, the Left and Right did not always agree. But they learned to hold contradiction. To clasp paradox. To create together.

And when they clapped, the sound echoed through the bones like thunder.

The left hand, ink on its palm, wrote happy truths,

While the right hand painted silent routes.

They lived like twins in mirrored cells,

Each claiming heaven, each crafting hell.

One held the spoon, the other the knife

Both feeding hunger into life.

And when the moon falls upon the unwell,

And dreams begin to softly swell,

The hands reached out, unsure, unplanned

And touched the strangers in the sand.

No treaty signed, no war declared,

Just fingers folding into prayer.

The body sighs, the heart takes flight

Two hands, one shadow, fusing

into a single form

embracing their singular duality.

....................

The Prompt.