I itch to write something. Something enthralling and totally new. Classic and futuristic. Something with long sentences that have readers holding their breath. I want to spin something so brilliant and elaborate yet simple and sobering.
I keep doubting myself: do I have enough color in my fingertips to paint this whole portrait? And fill in every inch the way I want to? With all the audacity and grace I can muster?
Everything seems to be happening so fast with me racing along at the expense of my words. There isn’t much one can say mid-sprint. Knees high, heart pumping, calves on fire. I would rather run that write.
I itch to write something. My hands are inflamed. I reach out and smear the colors on my fingertips across everything. My sitting room walls and my journal pages. Texts to my mother and birthday cards. I may not have enough color to finish this portrait or skill to get the details right but my back is to it. Long sentences that have readers holding their breath. Brilliant and simple; elaborate and sobering. It’s me in my entirety. Scratching my itch.
-Blank under blankets.