There’s an itch that I can’t seem to put my finger on and scratch. And yet, I know of the presence it has over a part of me. I keep looking for where exactly it is and just cannot seem to locate. No, it’s there. Somewhere accessible, definitely. All I’m saying is, I can’t put a pin on it.

It’s a problem. The problem of not being able to define the problem itself.

Even with an occupied mind, the creeping moments of dissonance disturb the flow of returning to normalcy.

Like a sloth not being able to get out of bed to a tired body which cannot fall asleep, even when it really needs the rest. If not for anything, at least from the headache that’ll ensue the next morning until a few gallons of coffee is nuzzled inside. No, drinking isn’t the problem here. My sad tempt-ridden vices.

Few scratches here. And probably there as well. I just seem to have unpacked boxes that didn’t need any meddling. Objects should’ve remained intact. The status quo as someone said to me once. Maintain that. But, my damn itch. Let’s scratch it to win. Win prizes everyday.

Hit-and-trials of a series of root-cause analysis doesn’t bring out any conclusion. Unacceptable, indeed.

On hindsight, everything seems avoidable, every decision examined and all what-ifs answered when nothing could be changed. The silence of the presence engulfing the chaos past like a it meant nothing. But it did. It all did. It all made sense back then. O’ you! The monster of the present, stop treating the kid of the past with disdain, and have the empathy. The future’s karma won’t spare you!

I’m still left wondering, where’s the damn itch! To scratch and feel better. Temporary relief, but the cravings of the soul are real.