Here it is, 4 years after my arrival in Seattle and again I am staring uncertainty in the face. I am scared. I am hunting for a job and crossing fingers and hoping that Seattle isn’t done with me. I’m not done with it. There is a man that still has my heart that lives here and my feet have not walked everywhere that I want to here. I spent a good long while sitting in a used bookstore today and it made me cry. I forget sometimes how comforting the smell of old books is to me. It reminds me of grandma, and of home, and of less complicated times. What am I doing? I am 30 years old and no closer to my life goals and dreams. I never made a goth/punk inspired lingerie line, I never started a band, or finished my play, or wrote a book, or did my coffee table book of my friends’ alter egos. I’m not a midwife yet but hopeful that this year will put me closer to the path. The anxiety in my chest is hard to ignore and I lay awake missing being able to just roll over into a set of arms. I need sure footing and a boy hug. I hope my dumb luck of being able to land on my feet lasts
I have not. I suppose I should check it out
Holding hands may seem like an innocent gesture, but they show more than a simple interlocking of fingers. Your hands are one of the most essential parts of your body: you build with them, feed with them, hold with them, touch with them, fight with them; they are the tools of the human body. To take a hold of another’s hand is to break from living individually. It is to link yourself to another being, to momentarily entwine your life with another’s, to promise, for a moment, that you need not face the world alone. More simple, more aesthetically naive than other forms of affection, i.e kissing, hugging, sexing.., the act of holding hands is often trivialized in its true implications.
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