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Life is too short for boring stories

The touch is always immediate. It is quiet, delicate and emphatic, but always immediate, without anything in between, without mediation. It is immediate as a gift and an acceptance. Perhaps reticent, timid or conquering, brisk, but always immediate. You cannot be represented. It happens between me and you.

The touch is always revealing. Nothing you say, nothing you think, nothing you do can defend against the veiling. You can always hide behind it and immerse yourself. You only have to step out of yourself in touch, you have to reveal yourself. The touch is always revealing.

The touch is always unique. It happens in the now, in the situation that arises and passes, over and over again. And it happens between becoming and passing away. It is the link between becoming and passing away. It is the knot in the long, monotonous string of time. It ties knots of memory into the otherwise sluggish, gloomy monotony. It piles up islands, narrow islets, in the stream of transience. The touch is always unique.

The touch is concentrated. You can only touch me in an act of will. Touching itself as itself cannot be by the way, or thoughtless. It happens in full awareness. Where you are not present, in the touch, it does not happen. There is perhaps a close spatial coexistence, but never touch that is sent on the journey to arrive. She goes into the void. She does not leave the place of departure. The touch is always focused.

The touch is always confessing. I confess to you, confess myself to you in my you-being. The touchless is helpless and lonely, divided and distorted, but the touching person is whole and upright in his turn, because he is a professor, a professor of saying yes and the possibility of approaching one another. The touch is always confessing.

The touch is always recognizable. Skin to skin there is no longer anything that can be deceptive, nothing that can be revealed. The room is filled and pushed aside. Invitation and participation, understanding, in the deepest, most original sense of life, so that behind the brokenness and distraction the wholeness emerges like a regained light. The touch is always recognizable.

The touch is always healing. My skin is the gift that lies over yours, that hugs yours and dissolves and blurs the finest cracks, the hurts and mutilations, the distortions and cramps, embedded in the harmony of that which is guided by existence itself. Your skin is the gift that warms and penetrates mine, deeply absorbing, delimiting and expanding. The touch is always healing.

„Take me in, into the immediacy of your touch,“ you say to me.
And I take you into the immediacy of our touch.

„Reveal yourself to me in your touch,“ I tell you.
And you hug me and reveal us in it, you and me, we.

„Raise me to the uniqueness of your touch,“ you say to me.
And I lift you beyond what is humanly comprehensible and attackable into our touch.

„Enclose me with the concentration of your touch,“ I tell you.
And you embrace me with the attention to the uniqueness in your touch.

„Be my confession in your touch,“ you say to me.
And I confess to you in our touch.

„Be my recognition in your touch“, I speak to you.
And you recognize me as nobody recognized me before, naked and bare, in our touch.

„Be healing in your touch“, you say to me.
And I envelop you, completely and completely, in order to free you from the scars of life and to restore them, like on the first day, better than on the first day, in our touch.

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