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True Intimacy simply cannot be rushed. It’s not a romp in the sack. It’s a slow baring of the soul. It comes haltingly with time, between the shy synapses of broken sentences, the thought inside the thought, the enigma behind a torn smile or a joyous tear. Real intimacy is neither instant coffee nor speed dating, nor is it nonchalant, blaze or frivolous. It’s a staggering process of the sharing of your rusty, scarred self without embellishment and it’s never easy. People would rather drop clothes to experience the comfort of touch than have someone caress their soul. Because no one likes to reveal how vulnerable they actually are. There’s a silent conspiracy among human beings the world over, this pretence of aggressive invincibility.

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