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I've been chatting with an absolutely wonderful woman as of late. We've barely mentioned sex, probably because we're both the same at heart -- we like to care for others, and consider pleasure (for the most part) as a part of that caring.
But I hesitate in the world of on-line chatting and e-mail exchanges. On a wall in my library, I have a print of Michelangelo's "Creation of Adam" scene from the Sistine. It's cropped so that one sees only two hands, the hand of God and the hand of Adam. I beleive that Michelangelo painted it so as to demonstrate what was about to happen, the endowing act of our humanity, that moment toward God in which man was set down his own path.
It reminds me more of this woman and I, though. Two hands, reaching out to each other, yet seperated by a tremendous, cracking, shattering distance. The hands are probably only a quarter of an inch apart, and I imagine if you had poor sight you'd think they were touching. But they're seperated by a universe. As she is from me. The distance is as mental as it is geographical. Good and evil.
The potential to touch is there, as well as the potential to shirk away. Sometimes a push is a pull. Perhaps, like grace, it's the distance between that counts.