She had an itch, and she needed to scratch it. Scrape her nails along it until her skin turned to white burning lines. Rub it and itch it and pick and claw and tear until- relief. She didn’t know how to. What she couldn’t fathom was this: how do you scratch an itch that isn’t physical? How do you take the persistent niggling feeling in the back of your mind and turn it into something tangible, something scratchable? How do you turn a fractured song lyric and nervously twitching fingers into a simple impulse with a simple solution? When the words in your head say “Go go go!”, how does that transfer? In pen and ink, in art? In poems, drabbles, stories, rants? In headphones (or earbuds) and deafening chords, sprawled across a bedspread in the afternoon sun?
The answers biology gives us are too simple: how do you scratch the itch of your restless humanity? Science can’t answer that question, can’t scratch that paradox of an itch.