We are all works of fiction.
No matter how truthful we may try to be, our own stories betray the characatures that we let stand in for us. It is all an internal monologue playing itself out in front of us. Somettimes it is surprising and sometimes it is mundane. But the only thing I know to be true is in holding on tight to another person and letting that be enough.
It is awkward and fruitless sometimes, but the holding of hands or the hugging of shoulders is the only genuine act that we feel on a daily basis. We talk and we tell, but we never actually connect. The labor of friendship is solidified and the relationships are made concrete by prolonging an embrace.
I don’t claim to have all of the answers, but in a world so full of phonies and charletens, the intertwining of fingers is what makes the chaos go way. It is what makes the real possible. It is what truth itself calls upon for verification.
“All you need is love” is an abstraction. All you need is one open palm and another to place inside. Keep it there for as long as you can because everything else in the world is going to change around you.