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A vague itch, smothered somewhere beneath the outward
appearances and thoughts. Forgotten during the course of the day, it does not
disappear, it merely smolders in a still agitation.
A vague itch, which only the undistracted mind may detect, as it pervades the
quiet and acquiescent mood with a sense of proprieties unsettled.
Probing here and there, I search for the cause of my discomfort. A feeling, a
sense; of purpose, of direction, of destiny, held in stasis. A touch that
whispers that there is something else I could do, must do, in order to become
the self of dreams recurrent.
A disembodied itch, for its source I cannot distinguish. Directionless, it
fills my head, my entire body, leaving me in aggravated confusion of where or
how to act to assuage it.
I have looked to the sunlit day for answers, to the moonlit night for guidance
and to others for wisdom and ultimately have found nothing. Neither book nor
speech give more than the dimmest spark as I struggle to peer into the darkest
realm I have ever witnessed or imagined; my complete and hence timeless self.
Anxiety presses down upon me for want of solutions unknown. Who am I to be?
Where am I to start? My own unrevealing darkness mocks my limited insight.
Since a child, a premonition of future deeds has given birth to thoughts and
dreams. Dreams deemed impossible, yet still they plague me, conscious or not.
Is this a malady of an overactive imagination or an illness of the mind? The
touch whispers that its origin lies elsewhere, awaiting discovery, waiting for
the mind to rid itself of taught reasoning and be completely open to the rising
tide of black water that comprises the unknown.
But who is daring enough to fully lose himself on the slight chance that he
might find himself in the end?
A vague but persistent itch, located beyond reach and to scratch at it I would
have to dislocate myself, to lose what is termed wholeness and well being. Well
being... I have to smile at the thought this conjures, after all it is this
very same condition that I view as unhealthy and unproductive.
As I am now, what am I achieving? Where are my present searches and
accomplishments taking me? Not where I want to be going, but where is that? To
the worlds I dream of? That's one small step for me, one giant step off the
deep end! But is my sanity worth the misery, the nameless wondering? Still so
many questions. The visionary blinded. The prophet uninspired, all by my own
hand.
For I am my own damnation, my own wall. My everyday life drains my dreams as
surely as a gash along my forearm. To forsake the dreams allows me to at least
pretend at normalcy. The healing of the wound is to forsake the world of my
raising.
Deep in thought, I struggle with myself about myself.
A vague itch...A touch that whispers...The darkest realm...Dreams deemed
impossible...One small step...
All culminating in a choice.
[© 1993 Joseph Wheeler,
all rights reserved]