Chapter 32: Finger tremors: When consciousness touches consciousness

Let's talk about irony for a moment. I started this blog as a diary of a journey through failed dates, iced coffee in Dizengoff, and men who thought, "Hey, what's up?" was a legitimate opening for dialogue. I called it "Tinderland - 50 Shades of Grey, in Hair." And here I am, discovering that life is dynamism incarnate.

The Tinder algorithm and I parted ways, not as friends. (He wanted me to learn to sort people, I wanted to find love.) Today, those apps seem like an old, distant world to me, almost archaeological.

That's it, I'm done. The orange flame icons have been deleted, and my finger no longer automatically swipes at every man with a fish in his hand or sunglasses in the house.

But make no mistake, I didn't retire to a monastery. I simply moved into the "underworld" that simmers beneath the surface of the most "bourgeois" social network in the neighborhood: Facebook.

I'm pretty confused, to be honest. I wrote three and a half chapters about the masquerade ball. I was cynical. I went down on their lives. I defended myself for why I was so secretive.

Just one month into the world of "Fiction," and I feel like I've landed on another planet. Who knew that beneath the images of Shabbat cakes, or a tropical jungle somewhere, lurks a jungle of false identities and dramas on a Greek scale?

The pursuit of "distilled happiness"

I stopped looking for "relationship." That word, with all its heavy baggage, suddenly seems like a suit three sizes too small for me. I no longer want "someone," I want moments.

I found myself in dialogues that were a work of art made of words, with people I would never recognize on the street.

I discovered that beneath profiles with a generic landscape photo, the most fascinating people I've ever met are hidden. They're fake, but they're probably the most honest people I've ever met. Because when you wear a mask, you suddenly dare to tell the whole truth.

When the Veil is Lifted: Words Become Flesh

The most amazing thing about this underworld is when the veil is lifted a little. These aren't Nigerian crooks looking for money; these are broken people, dreamers, or just lonely people, using a fake persona to reach out. I met a "fake" who introduced himself as a product manager at a respected high-tech company, but in the late-night conversations, when the defenses were down, he revealed the vulnerability of a child who just wants someone to listen to him.

There I understood the cosmic power of the word. How a sequence of letters on a screen becomes a real, physical emotion that chokes the throat.

Words are not just a means of communication. They become the architecture of my reality. When he writes to me, “I feel you through the distance,” I really feel a virtual hand caressing the back of my neck. My brain doesn’t distinguish between truth and fiction; for him, this thrill is raw, living material.

The storm between the lines

And then it happens. The moment when words become matter, and the screen begins to burn. Within this underworld, I experienced an emotional and sexual storm unlike any polite date in a coffee shop. It began with a late-night conversation with an enigmatic profile, a man without a face but with a language that penetrates under the skin. Without physical contact, I was sucked into a vortex of intellectual passion that turned into raw passions.

His words reshaped my body. Every description, every typed whisper, created a naked, uninhibited intimacy that no touch of the hand could match. It was a cosmic experience. The words created a refined sexual thrill, free from the confusion of reality, the embarrassment of the adult body.

There, between the lines, I was most beautiful and most alive. I felt my pulse racing, realizing that consciousness can touch consciousness with a power that shakes all the senses.

The Stolen Water and the Thirst for Truth

So who am I in all this? I found myself, a woman of no age, who has already seen it all, drawn into the pleasure inherent in this thrill. It is an intoxicating pleasure, almost forbidden.

There's something addictive about this word hunt, knowing that someone on the other side of the screen is skipping a beat because of a sentence I wrote at 2 a.m. It's pure bliss, but the deeper this thrill, the heavier the reflections.

I find myself wondering: How does all this "stolen water" serve the real purpose? Am I not, within this parallel universe, merely perpetuating the distance from the thing I truly thirst for? For living love? A love that I can touch, smell its skin, know that the person in front of me is completely, 100 percent, free to love me. Not as another experience among many in his shadow world, not as a temporary escape from his reality, but as a center.

As it becomes the center of my thoughts and longings, I have to ask myself if I'm not building palaces of dance. Is this life only "real" for me as long as the screen is on?

The thrill is immense, but the price is the constant wondering: Will these words ever come to fruition, or am I condemning myself to living within a beautiful and turbulent story, where the beloved is always, in the end, just a reflection of my own words?

Chapter 32: Finger tremors: When consciousness touches consciousness