Sometimes it feels like an itch you can’t scratch.
When lost, I think about my guru, who talks truth and sense. I think about my godfather, who encourages me to do the right thing, and I think about my priest, who forgives me for my mistakes. What more does a woman need?
The tickle is not just any tickle. Sometimes I wonder if I ever have to go as far as my heart surgeon to tackle it. In the end, she’s not as foolish as I am. I wonder how one could ever repress a memory or a feeling for so long that it becomes something else, something more endurable.
I’m not as ambitious as she is, although we both tackle issues using illusory things. All philosophy and religion have nothing better to offer than the illusory, and it’s up to us whether or not to believe in it. Even the concept of love falls into the same category, yet the tickle tries to prove the opposite.
I can’t say I have any patience or the ears to listen to a word that it has to say; it’s way too demanding, and I have nothing to give because I’m not receiving, either.
Here, reverse psychology has a nasty effect; I can’t tell it to scratch itself, so it evolves into something like the cookie monster. My mind begins to feed on endless fantasies that are inappropriate, but I can’t stop. Despite knowing it won’t ever do the job, I can’t help thinking about it. I’m inside an aero trim, spinning and spinning, barfing on myself till I lose consciousness because I can’t counterbalance appropriately.
Spinning and spinning, maybe that way the tickle…
