The slight brush of a shoulder while walking past a stranger. Fingers, like wanderers, find each other beneath the dinner table. Eye contact lingers a minute too long.
Touch awakens. It does not lull one to sleep but jolts one out of sedation and into consciousness. Touch stimulates the imagination. It is the possibility of a kiss that turns to caress and shape-shifts into the choreography of love. Touch is what allows us to break our own rules, to betray monogamy, to defy social codes.
Touch is the call of biology. Touch is the primal urge. Touch is survival. Touch is the baby’s cry for the mother’s breast. Grown men reach in the dark for that same familiar softness.
The more the craving of skin is resisted, the more desire enslaves the spirit. The desire becomes a need. It cannot be pacified but acted out. The question is, to what extent do we allow life to touch us? To what weight do we hold one another? When do we grasp and when do we let go?
The mind needs solitude to grow, but the body needs intimacy to resist entropy.
We touch to know we're real.
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