coalescente

(heart beating, palms perspiring, eyes irrevocably fixated upon the texture of your lips) but what if we truly kissed in the sparseness of the hyper-dimensional vector space of language?

I like the texture it gives to things from the smallest (imperceptible particles) to the greatest accumulation of what can still be defined as dust. But only from the perspective of my external skin and never my open wounds, exposed organs, eyes, mouth, ears, or any of the other rather vulnerable parts of my body. You must protect yourself from this. Dangerous little evils. Even more so when rock climbing, hiking through the mountains, or driving at considerable speeds along dusty roads. Having experienced all of these, I can confidently declare how this is one of my top ten enemies among the earthly elements. I could appreciate its texture, its presence, and its ability to settle upon almost everything with warmth and open arms, but I would very much prefer to keep it outside my bodily boundaries, thanks.

The closest thing to everything human connection could ever reach. Nothing much would happen if this did not begin somewhere or if no one were willing to initiate it. Even the most solitary being needs another, if only to find its way towards its own interiority. There have been particular occasions when I have had to resort to sign language and braille to make communication possible and they remain among the loveliest experiences I have ever had. I feel like in solid, crystal clear-tears whenever I teach myself these languages thinking about how extraordinarily beautiful it is that we continue to find ways to reach one another... even beyond the limitations of speech. I have spent much of my life conversing with strangers while dwelling in my solitude. I find it lovely. I call them disposable conversations: no identity required, no further secrets to disclose, no obligation to establish an intimacy beyond the encounter itself. Everything feels genuine and unguarded, pure - filled with raw emotions and fleeting glimpses into one another's existence. Nothing particularly needs to be retained and nothing necessarily needs to follow. It surely is on behalf of certain purity in speaking freely to someone whose life may never intersect with yours again. Second favourite. Conversing with beloved ones, however, feels incredibly sacred. I much prefer one-to-one exchanges, eye to eye, with all their incalculable depth and occasional silences. They can lead (rather ironically and unironically) towards a more definitive understanding of a connection... whether for better or worse. Sometimes, a conversation brings me closer to The Thing; sometimes, it makes me realize precisely how far apart I have always been to The Thing(s). Either way, it has always been extraordinarily valuable to allow another person to become known to you and allowing yourself to be known in return through This Very Method, despite the odds (the mortifying ordeal of being known). Very much recommended. Everyone ought to experience it, in all its forms. Or simply find someone with whom you can exchange a few words. I can't think of many things more worthwhile than making an effort to reach another human being. As for conversations with those I have no particular inclination to engage with, I would rather not romanticize them. They tend to bring unnecessary disturbances to an otherwise peaceful interiority and I obviously have little interest in entertaining exchanges that leave me further away from myself than when they began.

The forgotten. Delicate snowballs conglomerated with frigid rocks wandering the outskirts of a solar system. The long-remembered, the perpetually misclassified, the body condemned to an orbit of eccentric solitude. About its diminutive existence, its inclined orbital plane, its glacial heart of nitrogen ice, its endless delicacy. My sweetness among all, my Sputnik Planitia, which reduced in nomenclature but truly, never in existence.

Imagining myself as a warm vascular rupture seeping through the glacial extremities of an otherwise indifferent continent. No friends and only the magnificent solitude of existing without ever having to negotiate with loneliness - can bear me. I am a hemorrhage being wronged as a geological wound, a beautiful accidental nutrient source for the innumerable psychrophilic organisms waiting to metabolize my remains. I let them feed. I let my iron become somebody else's sustenance, my dissolution another organism's metabolism. I am alive, though alone, even more insistently alive for having nobody to witness the distinction.