Monday, May 05, 2008

Picking a scab

Sometimes things are like picking scabs, all of them are almost just as nasty, but one is nastier than the others, so that's the one you'll choose.

You keep on coming back to it, like the keys you know are on the fucking mantelpiece, and yet they're not, but you keep on looking there, shuffling through the bills and picking up the ornaments that otherwise would be unbalanced - if your keys were under them.

And all the time they're in your hand - one day you'll let yourself in your house, with your keys, to find your keys.

But you can't resist, it's there, it has an itch that can be momentarily satisfied (but amplifies ongoing).

Conversely, you can rehearse conversations that will reverse and therefore never happen - "if they say to me: this thing; then I will say: that thing; and I will be the winner". Not going to happen, things don't work that way, there's always something missing.

So you keep on coming back, to see if it's still there.

Of course it is, it's the act of looking that puts it there - there's no uncertainty in this principle.

It's the scratching that makes the itch.

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