The Seven Year Itch
With enough frequency to draw notice, in the last few months I have been asked the question, ” How long has it been….”, and there has been no need for a completion of that question. I knew immediately what the questioner was asking, the countdown has been like the Times Square countdown clock on New Year’s Eve. Now I am feeling as if I might be the portal to a palpable space time wrinkle, other folks feeling my clock.
Seven years. Almost.
Done a lot of scratching in the mining of my soul. Finding the will to live. Facing impossible truths. Scratching the hives left by so many peeled onions, only to find many more fields of them to go. Seven years of scratching.
Never knew I had so much itch.
I itch to learn to trust, others and even more so, myself.
I itch to lean into this life I’ve built on the edge of the volcano. (Don’t mind the heat, baby, just enjoy the beauty, the power.)
I itch to binge watch my life to see where this amazing, convoluted plot has been taking me.
I itch to have the life I jettisoned. I itch to accept the life I have carved from the now, vein by vein.
I itch to immerse myself in beauty.
I itch for companionship.
I itch to know who the real me is.
I itch to converse with Lincoln; with MLK; with Walt; with God.
I itch to just have it be over because sometimes the scratching is just too damn hard.
I live, therefore I itch.