The Hands

My name is Compri.

Understood, in one way, and misunderstood, in another way.

I am always, always misunderstood. I cannot make myself understood. I understand very little of everything that surrounds me, that fills me, and threatens to become me or destroy me.

Often.

Often, I get scared of the world I live in. Is it just I who occupy this world, instead of that world? No one seems to be in this world, in which I find myself.

I am all alone.

Not, not I.

Not if anything was anything but I.

I am not alone because I am not here. Not even here.

If you touch me, you will touch my cheek, but not me. Because I'm not here. Not really.

You can find me swimming with the waves in some strange patch of ocean that stretches, rather furtively, across the palm of your left hand. Your right hand. Your right and left hands.