Anelly Aya

      The hour when the night has not yet departed, and the day is but a pale, bluish promise along the edge of the horizon, always carries a sense of naked truth. I sit in the silence of this early room, as the first rays of sunlight pierce the glass like thin, luminous fingers, and I think about touch. About those completely mundane, almost automatic gestures we exchange out of habit, never suspecting that within them lies encoded the entire metaphysics of our existence. We say: Give me five . We say it with ease, with a smile, sometimes in passing, while rushing somewhere, locked within our own tiny, isolated worlds. But what does this truly represent, if we strip away the layer of daily banality? What happens in that microsecond when two palms meet in the air and press against each other? This is a merging . In a psychoanalytic sense, the touching of palms is our first persistent attempt to overlap the boundaries of the Ego, which we so zealously guard the rest of the...

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