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Fingertips. This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

The feeling of security has become an illusion. I often wonder what time would have to be replaced, so that I could be less rejecting. I know there have been times in my life that I have been okay, that I have been connected and involved. Where have all the flowers gone? I can only imagine.

A few days ago I sat next to a homeless man in Lewiston. Shook his hand, completely unafraid of the common insecurities people have. Insecurities. Fearlessness. I just sat there, we didn't say anything really. I just want to feel it, feel the empowerment, know the security of myself next to someone who lives with nothing. With no security, but with all of the freedom in the world. Feelings. Emotions. I spent a great deal of time trying to imagine that what is not physical, is not really there.

That's when I stopped being able to move. Do you believe me? Because I remember it. I remember my feet being sucked into the tar in Freeport. Right before everything became dizzy, blurred, and unconscious. I get sick thinking about Freeport. I relate it with passing out, with a nauseated, awful, aching feeling. Shopping trips there don't do me much good, but it's all for the better I'd imagine.

My hand is beginning to graze across the surface of everything I see. Glass beads and golden circles fall in between my fingertips in the jewelry store we go to, to buy symbols of love for all the married couples. I heat them up in my hands and set them back down. Imagining all the possibilities of all of these pricey symbols. Is this what makes security? If I have a promise in the form of an object around my neck, will I be less afraid? Will I touch it every time I begin to feel nervous, when I forget that people will always walk away briefly and then return? We must all have space, have freedom, have moments where we are not attached.

My fingertips are getting rougher. Now that I’ve been touching all of these objects, I mean. Trying to get them to hold me back. Feeling the softened oils of my hand laced in between their own fingers. Maybe this is why I refuse security.

I have been holding my own hand this whole time.



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KiraKira said...
Oct. 15, 2009 at 5:10 pm:
I love this! I can totally relate and I feel like I am in the character's shoes. Well done!!
 
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