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.
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.
If you don't know what I am talking about… fair play. Salute to those that do.
The most beautiful burden we carry.
COLOMBO
LONDON