An Itch

Everything has a departing point. Everything has its one in a blue moonness. I guess you just to choose to ignore it until one day it just hits again. And you prefer to ignore the source of the blow and continue with the flow of your life until something inside catches up with you. I hate to say it, but it does. And then you’re done: that comfortable numbness is completely done with and you wonder what is there be done with yourself? Because you'd start to sound like a character in Beckett, and to be honest with you, not much credit is being paid to a speech of the sort, outside a literary context. They sound great on paper, and then on stage too, right? But in real life, things don’t reel the same. And it’s painful to see that the same things that a constant of what should have been a cozy memory of the past is actually a feeling of the present. It’s sickening that there’s so much emotional anesthesia out there, that such offhanded “coolness” needs to be paid homage to in the cruelest of ways. But then comes the edge, if edge is what it takes. And in the throes of some edgy scene, maybe some room for suppressed emotion is made. We’re immune to the classical fairy tale scenario in so many ways, that only some earthly sad reality is emotion-awakening. Oh, when it the means reach their scope, beware of the excessive use of Kleenexes around you! The emotion is cheap, but the moment has some sort of sacredness left: if beauty doesn’t move us, then at least decay does it.

Everything has an end. And if the beginning was paid such little importance, why would the end be given a different treatment? How I came about this train of thought is of little importance to you, dear reader. It’s just a temporary itch you need to get rid of. Sometimes.