To nuzzle

Every day of every year I'm in a book. Sometimes they go fast, sometimes I put them down for a month, but there's always a book. Right now it's about the Bataan Death March.

The war (of the world, part 2) in the Pacific is mostly new to me, save Pearl Harbor. Sometimes I think I should have a coin to flip. One side says "Catholic school education" and the other side says "wasn't paying attention". Maybe there's a third side, "too horrific - blocked".

Somewhere in the middle of reading this I read a first hand account from a man enduring 25 years (and forever counting) of solitary confinement, and it opened my mind to a whole new level of torture. Before reading this I ignorantly thought I'd be pretty good at solitary confinement. I have mental fortitude. I experience sensory overload. I can daydream entire new worlds. Maybe I'd write that screenplay or those short stories. Maybe it'd be kinda nice for a while.

For a while, in comfort, with nature, maybe. In reality? Torture.

My sense that would most cry out in pain is touch. To never again hug a loved one. You know, those hugs that bear love and connection and meaning. Like a string connects your heart centers. To never again tumble a blade a grass between my fingers. To never again bury my face in someone or somecat's neck. To endure this day after day with no end.

Plush on plush

Unthinkable.