Maybe becoming a new person after I shed my skin like I’m some grotesque, pink, two-legged caterpillar is like buying a plane ticket and just leaving. It’s like needing to translocate to another country, as if the world is one giant cell and I’m in the wrong part, but I can’t get there so I’ll become something else that’s far more useful.) But I don’t know who or what I want to be. And so the feeble murmur lingers in my pulse points, beating along unobtrusively throughout the day as I traipse along in too big boots and a weary smile. It’s a hushed drone at the back of my thoughts as I put pen to paper, the scratching of my writing as loud as it is. It’s almost soundless as I learn about distributions of variance and the colours of transition metals. The wordless whining moves and spreads as I leave the influx of knowledge behind, sparking in my veins as I imagine passion should. It shifts and rolls back like a breeze stirring into something more, like waves pounding endlessly against at the beach. The itch starts with a slow, steady burn; increasing the more I try to not focus on it, and instinctively I go to scratch it. The skin of my wrist feels delicate, like I could break it with too much pressure of my thumb. Or perhaps, if I hadn’t patiently clipped and manicured my nails to very short some nights before, I could start the line that’s needed to peel it off and be a new me. The itch bubbles and fizzes all the way up my arms, and pools in the crook of my elbows where the skin is also as pale and vein encompassed as my wrists are. There it rests and soaks in, the world unaware as I sit at my bus stop waiting and waiting. Sometimes I wonder, the cold metal of the bus stop seat against my legs, what I am really waiting for. The bus does come though, it always comes ambling along eventually and maybe that’s something that I can rely on, something that I can trust. The big lumbering machine pulling up in front of me, doors opening to eat me up with a loud hiss of its hydraulics. The drone of an itch seems to like the noise, melds into the fizzle of the air brakes whilst I curl up at the very back, watching as the seats fill like electrons in sub-shells do. There’s a whisper to the ride home, like wind rattling through the leaves of the trees, like there’s secrets in air and I’m the only one that notices. They dip and swoop, whirring past my ears like the buzz of a bullet that just misses and I’m waiting for the one that actually hits. If I put my headphones in they’re lost to a strange mixture of light-hearted pop and gritty rock, but the itch is still there. 58
Hearsay: On Dit's creative writing edition.