I never comprehended the power of touch, how it held the catastrophic potential to make you see things that weren’t there, and I never could fathom how it was both, a marvelous curse and an unquenchable thirst for survival.
You reach out to touch the textured walls as you stroll past the numb corridor of an ancient library and you are blinded with a delusory Polaroid of giddy teenagers in love with flushed cheeks and cotton socks, trying to hold hands behind the infamous Paleo-botany section. You feel anxious about them being caught, but your heart swells as you witness these young strangers escaping disparaging stares just to experience unimpeachable human touch.
It’s beguiling how your fingers tremble as you hold your grandma’s hands. It reminds you of the warm summers of your childhood, and your favorite dessert served hot in a platter. She smiled at you with her twinkling eyes as she caressed your fallen face, and you force a chuckle as you contemplate craving for her magical touch in your last days.
Why is it so important for us to feel as we touch, why can’t we just brush upon a surface and stand nonchalantly with no memories of the past, no hankering for the future and no lingering curiosity? Why is it that when you touch someone, it ignites every plausible desire of breaking free from the prison of your mental cacophony and to fly high above the clouds of anticipation, and that is how you know you love them?
Why can’t we love someone without consuming ourselves? Why does it have to be this exasperating and tempting at the same time? Why do I dream of enchanting constellations and picture myself dancing in the gallery of a collapsing museum as my fingers touch your bare skin? Is it comical that touching your face reminds me of every incomplete art I have ever made and every letter that I never had the courage to conclude and every sweater that I began to weave and stopped midway? How can I dive into the sea of ecstasy and walk out of it dry and hopeless?
Why do we crumble under every touch? We rejoice as we touch a mewling newborn. We sparkle under the excitement of touching a destined lover, and we suffer prodigiously as we lay our hands on a heart that no longer beats.
And why is it that when finally you slump on your cold bed, sympathetically embracing your solitude, you realize, you were touch-starved all along, and it took you to touch yourself again to acknowledge that it’s both a marvelous curse and an unquenchable thirst for survival.

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