Bless the familiarity of flesh pressing caressively, bless the scent and softness of boundaries that meet and melt alchemagically. It doesn’t matter who, for skin is always skin. Some souls are cosier than others, some safer, some more prickly, but the skin doesn’t care or share the soul’s issues. Anger melts, confused thoughts settle and attention returns to body when touch happens.

Luscious is the lush fragrance of flesh, including the green fecund skin of Earth, rotund, fresh and full. Her fat naked presence inspires me to strip my layers and stroke the open petals, the pistils and stamens that surround me, strangers and friends alike. I might go mad with pheromone-inspired desire, go insane, move into sanity, sensual truth known by youth. Babies put it all in their mouths and roll in it, they know what really matters. We were babies once; we knew, then we grew to forget (but no regret; the sun’s rays will waken us. Eschew sunscreen!).

If I could, I would press my flesh against the bare skin of others much more than I am now allowed. I am amused, bemused and bewildered by the boundaries of this touch-me-not culture.

I like my solitude, it’s true, alone suits me well. But I also wish to shed that shell to melt into a bliss of bodies, seeking an ancient epiphany, a blind pile of puppies crawling. I long for a tactile discovery of unconditional love, freedom from constraining chains of so-called personal space, to close the gap that we are trapped in and call privacy. It hasn’t always been this way. The luxury of legroom we pay so dearly for can’t be afforded in the anthills and teeming hives of the third world. I think they are richer, more alive than we.

This entry was posted on Saturday, August 11th, 2007 at 12:05 am and is filed under truth and strangeness. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.