The Itch

It’s inescapable. Once touched, you can never purge yourself from the premonition that this—this—is not enough. The lingering Itch has no remedy, only distractions. Marinate your innards in booze and you’ll outrun it momentarily. Plow through the free-weights section until fibers rip apart and your body shudders down the order, collapsing on the floor. Whatever you do for peace and quiet, whatever modus operandi shuts the blinders, mutes the void, it comes with a clock. Tick-tocks, music-stops. And it’s back. The Itch is a disease. From your ability to suppress its symptoms, male depression, alcoholism, alienation, the unstoppable boils festering under your skin, screeching with violent fervor that you are the product of unwant, the faceless one that turns heads away in disgust. Behind that stage lies a slippery slope. Once The Itch has penetrated your barrier held together with scraps of energy left over from a lifetime of working under the whip de jour, we enter night.

Few are the many that want you to succeed, that are not keeping close tabs, making absolutely sure that you and your feet are always two steps behind. A friend, let’s call him. Cus’ that’s the role he plays. Smiling, laughing, the all-be-well how-can-i-unwell smile practiced for thousands of years in damp wine cellars, latrine pits, cargo holds, passed down from son to mother to neighbor to brother, with the Kained evolutionary purpose of keeping (you) safe. Away from harm. In good company. Fewer still is the man who sees you for you, whom at any given hour willingly lay down his hammer, asks no questions, delivers the needs of the hour. For you.

I stumbled upon a video of a man today. He was out on a nightly stroll with the missus. A young lad who got caught up in an exchange with another fella, thinking as young lads do, that words are tokens of intent; what separates us from the worm, or cockroach. The whole affair was over before it even began. The young father got stabbed in the neck, jugular severed, blood squirting out in fits, soiling his wrinkle-free white tee. He turned around, flipped the stabber off, and kept walking. Made it about fifteen steps before he collapsed, clutching at his throat like he couldn't believe that a scratch was the source of his declining health. In true TikTok brainrot style, the video was over in eight seconds.

Naturally, it filled me with existential dread. My stomach turned as I watched it again, a third time, a forth. Like what’s the f**king point, when words crumble in a trade of blades—the future mortgage, college tuition, tax deductible FIAT eBonBon turn to dust and sail across the bay, up-up hey-hey, in a multidimensional extinguishing of loose ends. That bit of mental gymnastics soothed The Itch for a good three hours. I didn’t want nothing, didn’t need nothing. Content lying in a ponderous puddle, thinking about the young father. But like clockwork, The Itch caught up right around lights out, started whispering and outlining, telling me about all the things I had not done, all the things I’d neglected of late, of past, of things I would neglect tomorrow. He is content when you make plans. When you say you’ll be a good boyo-o-boy, tomorrow, cross lines on a list, check boxes, become the machine. It is Segool i Fool, he who rule over vast empty spaces, the plains of uncivilized savages internal. In plain terms; a robotic approach to advancement in life will leave the soul barren. You must enjoy the procurement of growth, must challenge yourself while also making space for you, a space separate from the goals of betterment. It’s hard as shit to slow down, if you’re on The Itch, but who knows when the stranger opposite you carries a knife, brandishing a bad day, and decides to scratch Your Itch.

Be good, bredren.