Instalment Seventy Four

I’m at capacity, I know it. I feel it. I have ideas, new ideas that is, but no room for them, no space no more. Too much of anything is poison. You can get drunk on water, I thought, and as I did it happened.

I had an itch.

A bad one.

Not a hard to reach itch, a bad itch.

An abnormal itch.

Under my skin.

Like there was something trying to get out.

I was sure I could feel something in there.

Wriggling free.

I found a nail sticking out of the wall and scrapped till I bleed. I scratched away that itch.

And I was fine.

Maybe.

I felt a hole, not in my back, even though I had just put one there, but a hole in what I knew, which was not whole.

What if I have no more room for thoughts, I thought, and that itch was a different thought leaving to make room.

I had an itch.

It wouldn’t go away.

I found a nail sticking out of the wall, not into the wall? There was blood on it already but it did the trick.

What if that itch was a thought, I thought.