Have you ever felt your fingers itch with the intent to write something? Something that you could feel deep, deep down in your blood? Something you just knew, without having thought about it, could be something grand. I have that feeling.
I itch to put words on paper, feel the need to scratch at my fingers until the bleed. I need to write. Words of wisdom? Words of love? Words of compassion? Possibilities for the future? The sins of my past? I don't know.
I feel as though I should be blindly reaching for my pen. The only thing stopping me from doing such is that I already know. I know that once I begin to write the mood will be gone, dissipate like mist, escape my blood and leave my body feeling cold. I can never stop it, though I try.
So, instead I must suffer the feeling of my finger itching. I will scratch them and wait. I know the feeling must leave at some point and, as sickening as it is in my eyes, I am relived when the feeling is gone. I relish in its absence. I open myself to it.