I’m bound to my longing. It creeps in slowly; my heart starts to race a bit. The real awareness comes from my hands.
When activated, the sweat glands vibrate with an electric sting. As the fluids build up, collecting in the well of each pore, my hands shake without any discern from my will. Moisture, droplets alert me of my new state of mind.
I’m overtaken by panic from the illusion of any human physical contact. This in turn creates the anxiety that produces more sweat from my hands. Filled with an overwhelming amount of self awareness I attempt to casually dry my hands on my cloths. But it’s futile.
There is no real way to stop my body when it reaches this state. Carrying napkins won’t help. I just have to bare with it. Calm myself down long enough to release my mind from the death grip of awareness.
It always amuses me to find others plagued with this torture. I find they always deal with it better than I do. We do find a form of comradeship or a celebration of the awkward sensation in our hands. We can not control it, but now we can share in discomfort. Sometimes it’s said we can even find a pleasure in it.