Found this old writing in the archives. Feel free to listen or read.
Life is about texture. It’s about feeling. Feeling things and people and places… texturally. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Feeling the changing gradients as they come upon you and subside in you. It’s about the hills and the valleys… the bumps and the dips. The rough patches and smooth sailing. So much texture to live in, breathe in. Be in. All this fiber to feel, to weave, to unravel and weave again. So much blanket building, blanket wrapping. All these ways in which we try to stay warm. The texture of temperature… we feel this too. The degrees, the texture of the air. We measure it, bask in it, hide from it, and dress according to it. We cannot escape it. It cannot escape us. We are in it, we are it. We are texture beings, wrought with feelers, some with more sensitivity than others, but nevertheless we are all affected by each other. Together we create a landscape, a topographic texture map and we are just climbing all over each other, texture sharing, texture loving, texture hating, texturizing. It’s quite overwhelming when you lay thought to it. And then I wonder, can texture only live in movement? Can you feel texture in stillness? I start to think that sometimes the texture in stillness is more powerful than texture in motion. It is sometimes in our stillness that we find great texture within. That we feel to great depths even in the most still of moments. I am reminded that we just cannot escape it. This texture beast. And so I think about those numb moments. What happens then? Perhaps we cannot escape it, but perhaps we are good at ignoring it. Perhaps we have calloused over our feelers in an attempt to flee what we cannot. This is the fear, that we all have the ability to reach for texture, but we choose not to. So what is to become of us? Our topography shrinks and flattens and the texture beast becomes endangered, on the verge of extinction due to our own self-infliction of not wanting to be self-inflicted.