Jostling archive

Jostling, bodies jostling each other. It supposes to be shoulders. But no: bodies, every part of the body jostles with other bodies. It is almost like fighting, this time among organs. Jostling implies plurality: one cannot jostle with himself. It designates the pressing contact between me and you. But that contact at the same time unveils my hostility to you. If there’s no aggression, where comes my desire to jostle with you?

The friction aggravates. Your shoulder opens up a slit where blood becomes red (I thought blood is colourless). My stomach, fortunately, is lubricated by your secretion and manages to keep my blood from turning into colour. Bruises instead surface on the tip of my belly, like the reddening nipple of a fresh breast.  Your shoulder and my stomach are not supposed to meet, like every jostling, which is always an unexpected bombardment that arouses our underground hatred against the other.