Rachel Sukman She was there . Inside the thicket of variegated Lantana bushes . Kneeling , furled , lest anyone should see her lost in thought . Secluding herself from the other village children . Pinching herself in an attempt to fathom the desire she felt to touch upon knowledge , the desire to fathom the secret of the crystallization of a human body , the desire to decipher the way a thought is formed within the body . That primary passion became a closely-guarded secret accompanied by a certain measure of embarrassment . And there , close to the scent of recently raked soil and the intoxicating fragrance of fallen Lantana leaves , of a hedge protecting her seven-year-old childhood , she wanted to touch herself , to feel her skin , her flesh , to withdraw into herself , into that marvel of her being a living thing . She remained in her solitude , with a sense of helplessness . Her insatiate desire to know , namely understand , remained obscure .
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