Extend the hand, write, and it’s all over with the end.
Writing is the movement to return to where we haven’t been ‘in person’ but only in wounded flesh, in frightened animal, movement to go farther than far, and also, effort to go too far, to where I’m afraid to go.
but where, if you give me your hand, I’ll endure going. I write, I extend my hand; without my knowing it, this is already a prayer, I extend my hand to you so that you will exist because you do not exist, beyond my fingers, your fingers, without my knowing it this is already a response, already I draw to my side the site for you, with one hand I call the other hand.
It is in this modest, all powerful way that I begin to save what is lost.
When I write I ask for your hand; with your hand I’ll go too far and I won’t be afraid anymore of not coming back. Without my knowing it, it is already love.
Love is giving one’s hand. The hand is so powerful (one is not mistaken) one is clearly right to ask for it. – Stigmata, Escaping texts