Holding hands is one of the purest things in the universe. I believe this very strongly. That in all the vast space of time and dimension, in all the galaxies to ever have existed, holding hands is one of the most glorious things that ever has been.
I mean, sure the moon landing was cool, but have you ever held hands?
It isn't just a simple, average pleasure in life, like daisies and pennies and morning dust. It is entirely special. Here is the hand that makes you human, fingerprints completely your own, creases in your palms that people use to tell the future. The hand that you use to write love letters and type eviction notices, hands that build and tear down and wipe tears and wash dogs and harm and hurt and heal. The hand used to tie a child's shoes the first day of school, and to put a flag on the moon. Hands are special. And you are using them to hold onto each other.
"Shady," you are saying to yourself, "if you can say such nice things about hand holding, why are you so bad at it? Why don't you do it more often?"
Why don't you go to the moon more often? Because you don't have a spacecraft, of course. And maybe you do have a spacecraft, but it's not a very good one. It might not make it. This is like the state of my hands. My hands are not beautiful, and holding them would be such a waste of beauty, it might take away from the pure and subtle power of the act.
Why else don't you go to the moon? Because you're not an astronaut. You don't know how. You don't know if you can. Serious stuff can happen out there. Space is a dangerous place, and what if you don't make it? What if you get in the spaceship and manage to take off and then something happens out there and you're stuck? Holding my hand would be very cruel of me to let you do if it ends badly for you. It takes away from the beauty. It takes away from the meaning.
Let's say you are an astronaut and you have a spaceship and you know what you're doing and your hands are soft and warm and beautiful and there are no more excuses. When it comes down to it, you're not on the moon because the sight of the earth from such great heights would be too much not to wonder at, even if you are told not to. And the more you go to the moon the more you realize that you cannot wonder enough at it. The more you see it, the more you fear it will not be the same. You fear it will lose its meaning. And maybe the moon doesn't realize how many poems exist because of it. And maybe it doesn't know how much it means to you to be standing on its surface. Maybe you are just another boot print, just another flag, and the moon does not care whether or not you marvel in its beauty. Because a hand is just a hand.
Maybe holding hands is not to everyone else the way it is to me. Maybe it's just a thing that happens, like daisies, or pennies, or morning dust. Maybe it isn't this insane pathway to the soul where all things are connected and you are suddenly a part of something, a part of someone, in a form so simple and childish and raw you cannot mistake it for anything other than the purest form of beauty.
I don't know.
It could only be like daisies, and not cosmos.
But it sure is something.
I mean, sure the moon landing was cool, but have you ever held hands?
It isn't just a simple, average pleasure in life, like daisies and pennies and morning dust. It is entirely special. Here is the hand that makes you human, fingerprints completely your own, creases in your palms that people use to tell the future. The hand that you use to write love letters and type eviction notices, hands that build and tear down and wipe tears and wash dogs and harm and hurt and heal. The hand used to tie a child's shoes the first day of school, and to put a flag on the moon. Hands are special. And you are using them to hold onto each other.
"Shady," you are saying to yourself, "if you can say such nice things about hand holding, why are you so bad at it? Why don't you do it more often?"
Why don't you go to the moon more often? Because you don't have a spacecraft, of course. And maybe you do have a spacecraft, but it's not a very good one. It might not make it. This is like the state of my hands. My hands are not beautiful, and holding them would be such a waste of beauty, it might take away from the pure and subtle power of the act.
Why else don't you go to the moon? Because you're not an astronaut. You don't know how. You don't know if you can. Serious stuff can happen out there. Space is a dangerous place, and what if you don't make it? What if you get in the spaceship and manage to take off and then something happens out there and you're stuck? Holding my hand would be very cruel of me to let you do if it ends badly for you. It takes away from the beauty. It takes away from the meaning.
Let's say you are an astronaut and you have a spaceship and you know what you're doing and your hands are soft and warm and beautiful and there are no more excuses. When it comes down to it, you're not on the moon because the sight of the earth from such great heights would be too much not to wonder at, even if you are told not to. And the more you go to the moon the more you realize that you cannot wonder enough at it. The more you see it, the more you fear it will not be the same. You fear it will lose its meaning. And maybe the moon doesn't realize how many poems exist because of it. And maybe it doesn't know how much it means to you to be standing on its surface. Maybe you are just another boot print, just another flag, and the moon does not care whether or not you marvel in its beauty. Because a hand is just a hand.
Maybe holding hands is not to everyone else the way it is to me. Maybe it's just a thing that happens, like daisies, or pennies, or morning dust. Maybe it isn't this insane pathway to the soul where all things are connected and you are suddenly a part of something, a part of someone, in a form so simple and childish and raw you cannot mistake it for anything other than the purest form of beauty.
I don't know.
It could only be like daisies, and not cosmos.
But it sure is something.
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