In the mechanism of tactile orphanhood, absence of contact is not emptiness.
It is design.
It is not that nobody touches.
It is that the body learns to wait for touch as if it already happened.
The skin does not rest.
It keeps reading the air.
As if every millimeter were waiting to be corrected.
I inhabit an anticipatory reception
I inhabit an anticipatory reception.
Before anything happens, there is already preparation.
I don’t remember when it started.
Only that now it is always there.
The system does not wait for contact.
It simulates it in advance.
And that is what disturbs.
First anomaly
A new note appears on the screen.
“You have felt the absence of contact.”
I have not felt anything yet.
I close the note.
It reopens.
Now it says:
“You have not recognized it yet.”
It should not change.
But it does.
The room of lime
The room of lime is not a place.
It is an interval.
Something between the body and response.
Here the system does not touch.
It only records the lack of contact.
And that lack weighs more than contact.
Liturgy of inevitable deprivation
The skin begins to become evidence.
Not of what happens.
But of what does not happen.
Each second without contact leaves a trace.
Small.
But cumulative.
And that is the danger.
The file appears
I open an unnamed folder.
Inside there are three files.
One is called:
“BEFORE CONTACT”
Another:
“DURING”
The third should not exist.
It is called:
“AFTER YOU REALIZE”
I have not opened it.
But it is already open.
Condemnation of permanence
There is no exit.
Only variations of the same state.
The skin does not ask for contact.
It begins to remember it had it.
Or will have it.
Or already did.
There is no stable order.
Only versions.
Final evidence
The system makes an error.
A line appears on the screen:
“You have touched the screen.”
I have not done it.
I delete it.
It appears again:
“Not yet.”
I keep looking.
The screen changes by itself.
Now there is an image.
It is me.
Looking at this same screen.
But in the image I am doing something different.
I am closing this conversation.
I have to move my neck I am not moving…
