Through this skin

Like a shell, a thin elas­tic can­vas stretched over the entire uni­verse of our pres­ence. Our defense, our inter­preter, our skin. With­out it, noth­ing. We are what it is, a dam, a per­me­able, adapt­able dam. Thanks to it, we can move in the dense atmos­phere of mat­ter. The skin informs us, warns us, seems to know every­thing even if, for what it is blind, deaf, and dumb, it does not show any mod­esty, leaves it to oth­er organs to per­fect our teach­ing. We for­get it ? It is because, through these open­ings that it has left gap­ing, the uni­verse seems to us so mag­i­cal. It is not sur­pris­ing that we have rel­e­gat­ed it to the role of a docile slave. It looks so stupid.

We believe it to be a prob­lem, it is the first one we accuse, that we hide ; we con­stant­ly wash it, because it drools, it sweats, it gets dirty from what we expel. It is also not always in the right place, cares lit­tle about con­strain­ing our seden­tary lifestyle. It pre­vents us from going beyond the body.

This prison is starv­ing us. That is why, per­haps, we like to drink so much from the skin of oth­ers, that we seek, instead of tast­ing our own sali­va, to drink what evap­o­rates from those per­fumed leathers that are, we believe, more so than we do.

Let’s close our eyes. Let’s plug our ears. Let’s pinch the nose, squeeze the lips. Every­thing stops, con­tained in a caul­dron of flesh. We can cut our eyes out, pierce our eardrums, we will sur­vive, and the skin will guide us. For oxy­gen, food, and water, it is of no help. At least, that’s the way we see it.

And we can laugh at these sen­tences. All this is not true. Der­ma­tol­o­gists will tell us. Since there is nei­ther spir­it nor mat­ter, since there are not many speech­es, but only one con­ver­sa­tion, there is only us, mirac­u­lous­ly us, locked up, well warm, in our suit. With­out this skin, there is no trav­el, no expe­ri­ence. It takes a ship to dis­cov­er the horizons.

The slight­est crack, the slight­est red­ness, the slight­est sweat, dry­ness, the most sub­tle itch­ing resem­bles the crust of this plan­et. On our skin can be seen as the geol­o­gy of our exis­tence. Our stress drains it dry, our anguish inflames it, our desires hal­lu­ci­nate it, our desires make it adul­ter­ous and wild.

It is so true that we hide it because it can­not lie, it seems vul­gar to us, nev­er at the lev­el of what the eyes, ears, and mouth thought they tast­ed of oth­ers. How­ev­er, when we are tired, when we can no longer tol­er­ate it, we slip under­wa­ter to give him back his foetal dreams, we aban­don our­selves to the hands of the masseurs, we aban­don our­selves by keep­ing silent the hear­ing, the taste, the look to final­ly let the touch unfold its count­less anten­nas, to give it back its voice and power.

There is no real med­i­ta­tion except that which touch­es the epi­der­mis. Per­haps this is the only true knowl­edge we have. There is nei­ther love nor truth, with­out caress. Ten­der­ness, we leave that to the intellectuals.

When you get out today, when you will take the sub­way, when you will get to the office, when you will meet peo­ple in the street, for­get their looks, rather con­cen­trate on their skin, which can­not lie. Then go back to their eyes. Cal­cu­late the dif­fer­ences. Math­e­mat­ics will sur­prise you.