Do you remember? Once rested we, still. No fears came to life But for ghosts Likened from our dreams. Heardy we played With companions, and Constructs overlay Upon our feeble Attempts to be kings Of all the little Things; lay now unseen.
Adam needed the touch of God to become one himself, but it was the touch of an image of his likeness that sparked life and constructed humanity.
It is a slap on the cheek, the breaking of a dam that tells a mother that the dummy cradled in her arms breathes and it is touch that makes you feel alive, grants the sense of being.
At moments when your father bids you goodbye with a hug and peck, and ruffles your already dishevelled hair, you smile, ironically. When your head rests all night on your mother's lap and she doesn't budge inspite of the numbness in her legs, you smile again, though it sounds sadistic.
At times when you are lonely and alone, you squeeze the worn out teddy bear or snuggle your nose in the crook of your snoring dog's neck, you muffle your screams in the void of solitude.
Cuddling your pillow, wrapping your arms around yourself and crying yourself to sleep; walking in rain, standing for hours under the shower, all because you find some weird comfort in the arms of sadness.
Vulnerability scares you and so does the idea of your instincts welcoming love at every threshold of your body, like it owns you, and pathetically you want it to discover you, recurring goosebumps being the trail of intimacy.
Opposites attract. Volcanic brains and hearts cold as glaciers are dragged from their wombs by mitten covered distances, small or big, and it is the conduction of love that warms and cools your senses, and breaks or makes you. Sadly and unwillingly.
There's power in the touch of another person's hand. We acknowledge it in little ways, all the time. There's a reason human beings shake hands, hold hands, slap hands, bump hands. It comes from our very earliest memories, when we all come into the world blinded by light and color, deafened by riotous sound, flailing in a suddenly cavernous space without any way of orienting ourselves, shuddering with cold, emptied with hunger, and justifiably frightened and confused. And what changes that first horror, that original state of terror? The touch of another person's hands. Hands that wrap us in warmth, that hold us close. Hands that guide us to shelter, to comfort, to food. Hands that hold and touch and reassure us through our very first crisis, and guide us into our very first shelter from pain. The first thing we ever learn is that the touch of someone else's hand can ease pain and make things better. That's power. That's power so fundamental that most people never even realize it exists.
A book For me Is not just An inanimate object I rather consider it As a companion Imparting wisdom Through the stories Of Women and Men Revelatory, glorious, fiesty Or vulnerable, volatile, anarchic
Helping me To escape reality And open doors To unknown locations Showering meteors Of poetic verses Teaching me magic or fighting Providing me clandestine insights In order to decipher The meaning Not of the words But those blanks or spaces In between them For those are the primary notions An author wants The reader To feel