Touch

“Formless Title
Empty paper
Relative Pen
Fundamental Ink”

                    Drémonk

“To be or not to be.”

Trying to figure out what in hell does that mean? Is “be” before being? Let’s suppose the former is truth. Be, it would seem isn’t mind. I mean in all likelihood mind invented be, what else? Be than, possibly is Ego; and, being most likely is Self. Why not? What is self? Not sure, but a sense of self I would say: sight, smell, hear, taste and touch. Some consider mind the 6 sense…whatever, although it does process our senses. Back to the subject. Let’s see which of these sense fields get us closer to the truth about ego and self: what are they? starting with touch.

I feel like a formal introduction would be appropriate here, something like: “Pardon me. Is this space taken?” The Ego would say to a lonely Self. Their acquaintance isn’t by chance, they met in the glow of Consciousness, maybe it’s dark. I have no idea of what or where consciousness is or what spectrum of color it emits if any. I suspect, though, as any courtship, Ego and Self’s song and dance expresses a kind of poetic romance.

These strangers now conjugate and begat Me, Myself and I in every syntax. Giving birth to concepts, like: I matter, you matter, Black lives matter…matter matters, all things matter as a matter of illusions and delusions — other words for crazy and crazier. As all creation stories this pair spawn off springs such as: the wind whispering who I could be, and I know what I am; then I take whiffs of who I am, sneezing away the rest; all while suspended in space aspiring to become another me. It seems everywhere and everything is a flawless mirror reflecting “me, myself and I – oh, and the other.” Self grandeur forever seeking the ideal identity. The one all other beings prefer, so I can discriminate with impunity, particularly against my marred and unacceptable self versions.

This is how I imagine the Ego serenades Self, saying something, like: “On contact I am alive, but with you, however, I am a free fall, open and vulnerable to your endless abide. It’s because of your emptiness that I manifest, I become…. Already being of mind, I’m now beside my person in anticipation to touch you — may I touch you? and fill my lungs, inhaling hope, exhaling manifestation. I’m aching to hear your vibrant lies, eyeball your naked character and tongue taste your…well, essence, I’m sure you’ll claim it’s delicious, your flavor on my tabula rasa. Just a touch! your touch, is all I need — to connect, needless of affirmation, yet, I feel a want of confirmation. Am I brave enough to face the cracked mirror or strong enough to carry the feather of uninvented tomorrows? I don’t care so long as I can touch you? Your presence bear witness to my existence and give credence to my “I” — the speaker and voice of myself (be) to convey my inner most gut feelings, yelling: I am all alone! can anyone hear me. Can you feel me?!

“Now with throbbing nerve endings, leading me to believe that you know the language of unspoken suffering. Words point to intangible aspects of painfully Me. But we can communicate beyond our Me’s limited use and commune a felt unlike a feel. I long to touch you in another way. Inasmuch as I can’t help except to sense my mind locked inside 1440 cubic centimeters (360 x 4: understanding, overstanding, innerstanding and outerstanding), you also want to be set free.

“Is it okay to touch you? We’re that touch away from ‘No longer I, only we.’ At our memorial service, self-otherness lays flowers over self-otherless. Imagine that! If only you let me touch you.

“On contact we will know fire, water, air and earth. Let’s compromise our beings in those elements, though, what of being? I just know I want your touch to be as gentle and warm, and comforting as the ALL BLANKET wrapped around this baby Mental-verse for the time being.

“I can’t deny your impact on my emotions. Far as my senses are able to receive you and recognize your reflection, which in every way measures my pain and pleasure principles; still, it isn’t enough! I need us to dive head first into each other’s empty palms.

“Imagine flames without heat; blood that doesn’t race, a mind without thoughts — whoa! and flesh unable to feel — let’s not conceptualize the unimaginable, least not now.

“Who am I! I’ll know if you let me touch you in such away, just maybe…. I squeeze the fluff out of my dreams every single night, caressing my mental depiction of you, only to know self-suspicion: am I alive or alivish? For heaven’s sake, let me touch you! The potential, ever ready to emerge from your electro-magnetism, and you most certainly are magnetizing, an ooze of sensual bliss, formed in flesh, arisen just for me.

“Maybe I’m a figment of my own preconception. Perhaps even, a dream drifter as you sleep, caught up in my own astral plane, stuck? I need to know. Am I a reject discommunicated from a tactile universe, space surrounding your material world, or perhaps, the void trapped behind the walls of my mind? I must know! If you just….

“How so lonely it is to be an untouched and touchless being. Please let me touch you. I already know your absence. It’s tantamount to a state of nonexistence — whatever it is. I think, though, devoid of senses — whatever that’s like. Who I am to others, will never be who I am — who I could be — to you, self rapture in your delight. I truly will be grateful for your touch”.

See: Sorreal