When I lie in bed, what touches up against my Being? Simply the sheets and the pillowcase? The air the fan pushes down onto my skin? These are not the only things that touch my Being, and in fact they may be the furthest from it.
What touches up against Being? What lies intimately close to me in bed?
The sound of tires spinning on the highway outside is closer to me than the sheets on my skin. The places that I go following that tire-sound, big rigs pull me along, the wind whipping harder than the ceiling fan. Close to me is the future, the day I'm about to wake up into, the possibilities I will choose.
I may forget completely the things that actually touch my skin, the objects that my half open eyes let in. I may not be aware of the place that I'm in, the immediate, the ready-to-hand. Being is not like a piece of paper, bound in a book, touching only the pages directly before and after. No, Being is rather like a piece of paper in a book that touches the whole book due to the words printed on both sides.
Proximity to Being, is there such a thing? Doesn't this treat Being as an object, located in space only, able to be acted on by force, composed of a substance? What is proximal and what is infinitely far away?
When Being approaches death, sees the approach, realizes it, what touches up against Being is Nothingness. Surrounded by the Nothing, filled with the Nothing, this allows my Being to drive down a road I've never been down, to go to places while I lie in bed, to imagine the day as I contemplate the past.
Nothing touches up against my Being.
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