If you'd ask me what my favourite part of my body is, I'd say hands without a second thought.
Hands, because they're what I write my thoughts down with. Especially when they get overwhelmingly mind-boggling and simultaneously mild-numbing.
Hands, because they're what I sketch and paint with. The perspective of what I see in front me is unique to me and I bring it to light and sight— the world as I see it through my eyes, that is— by putting it down on paper with my hands.
Hands, because they're what I feel all those delicate textures with. From tracing spirals in a freshly chopped stem of an old grainy oak tree, my fingers softly dipping into the cracks within that has soaked up so many memories, to flipping crisp pages of a new book and even stroking the skin of a human I've cared deeply for.
Hands, because I've always found them so difficult to draw (I would dare say that the anatomy of a hand was the most intimidating for me to study in my 1st year of medicine). So many lines and angles to consider and every twitching of a finger projects its very own shadow that influences the entire drawing process and I clearly have a long way to go until I can be proud of the hands I draw (contradictingly enough, since it is with my own two hands that I draw) but that makes it all the more rewarding when I finally give "hands" justice in my art.
And finally,
Hands, because they come in all shapes and colours and ages. And they come having palm creases that people have found interesting enough to study and read and possibly tell someone's future with. Every wrinkle and every fingerprint is unique to its owner and nothing is more romantic than that.