It lives within – a constant. That tingle. It starts in the cerebral, flowing in a potent chemistry throughout the body. I feel it in my arms, my fingers.

The itch. 

Excitement at would could be. My stomach drops as I paint an ethereal picture. A scenario. A moment where my creation emerges out the chrysalis and into the world.

The itch never goes away no matter how much I scratch. I don't want it to. It keeps me company during nights of insomnia. I lift the laptop, my face bathed in technology's haunting light. Black engulfs me.

You sleep. I do.


Scratch the itch_1


The itch re-assures me during repetition and movement. Weight goes up. Weight goes down. Pulsating harder in between sets.  Parasitic feeding on attention. I give in and explore.

I carry the itch with every step. Pavements, filth, sky and bird affect my companion. The link inextricable. One feeds off the other – a continuous cycle. 

I fantasize and reality warps. I see into the future. I live a fragile hypothetical. Something from nothing. My something.


Scratch the itch_2


If you don't know what I am talking about… fair play. Salute to those that do.

The most beautiful burden we carry.