Contact


There is a reason why the skin is our largest organ.

We were meant as tactile creatures, no matter

Which power they say shaped us – with nerve-crusted digits

And tickle spots, and funny bones, and the apertures

Ringed by hypersensitive flesh – made to connect

By the laying on of hands and the meeting of mouths,

Skin, sense-sharpened, to skin.

And yet – and yet, tell me,

Who was the last person you touched?

Not the accidental brushes of fate in a trafficking crowd

Or the impersonal transfer of currencied commodity

I mean touched: real contact with intention

Tangible feeling transmitted through pores

And the electric dance of fingertips –

Touched, like you meant it;

Touched, like you wanted it back tenfold.

Do you know? Do you even remember?

In the age of iTouch-Everything and automate membranes

We drift, absorbed by silicon imitations

Separated by light-years of wavelengths

Tracing patterns on cold, flat screens while blitzing past

The warm, soft, reciprocating real thing,

And still we’re never quite able to shake the feeling that hey,

Something’s wrong, something’s missing –

Because the remembered ages of mother’s kiss and lover’s caress

Linger always in the memory of our senses

Even if unburned in the memory of our minds –

But no. We deny. We deny, by God,

And we devote our lives and living instead

To better pixels and instant feedback and immediate interface response –

We are pathetic. A worldwide web of isolated spiders

Each in our own silk cocoons

Never venturing beyond our own weaving

(For who knows what the other is or of his intention?)

And we’re calling this progress? Progress? Really?

Give me a break.

No.  A chance to break, break down this

Great Wall of Cynic we barricade ourselves behind

And re-establish the shaking of hands, the clasping to breasts

The bearhugs and embraces and cheeks pressed –

Return to a time when touch was for people not PCs,

When hugs and kisses were relayed sans asterisk brackets,

When smiles did not need punctuation to be seen

And we weren’t so goddamn afraid of holding and being held.

It won’t take much. A friendly grin, mussing of hair

A pat on the back and a poke in the ribs – these will be our weapons

And the battle will be waged wherever we find you

For in this siege there are no rules of combat.

But we will take no prisoners – there’s no need,

Only return the favour, and we have both won,

And all winners are soldiers still for the cause.

So come. Take up your armor, enemy – and take also my hand.

Misha’ari Weerabangsa

"Zeal without knowledge is fire without light." - Thomas Fuller, 17th century historian

4 Comments

  • February 8, 2013

    Hari Rao

    Awesome stuff Mish!

  • February 9, 2013

    Misha'ari Weerabangsa

    Thanks Hari 🙂 Glad you liked it 😀

  • February 25, 2013

    rsn

    meaningful and down to earth indeed

  • February 25, 2013

    Misha'ari Weerabangsa

    Thank you 🙂