Member-only story
The Significance of Touch
And the spirit of passion.
The physicality of it all was a mask. It was the penetrating desire of deep connection. The curiosity in the moment. Who was this other that drew so deeply from my internal wellsprings? Digging deeper was never about touch. The need to know drank me whole. What would I discover? What mysteries would they let me know, what torrid little secrets?
Burning so close and so hot to the source was obsession. It could be nothing less. My desire to discover drove me up to the point of no return, but never crossed it. Always at the center of every moment was my intellect, asking, choosing, dominating. Never lost completely. Always leading the other in a merry race, inexorably toward the finish. Never the finish expected.
I had to explore further. It is not in my nature to stand apart and watch from the sidelines. I dove in with both feet, simultaneously wanting and not wanting. Intellectually, I knew I was wrong, internally I shifted from safety to comfort. I fell into complacency, ease, pulled myself apart and drowned myself there. Exploration halted in the selfishness of cocooning, burying me away from my very need to understand.
The gloaming embraced me as I grieved myself. I stumbled and fell as I reached outward for a rock, not just any rock, but one that sustained me in the darkness of my own…
