Addiction, Affliction

Scratchin' the ol' wound, by boredom, by habit. Not festering yet, no. Though unable to cicatrize; a familiar itch - nonsensical. The youngster's flesh, desecrated once yes, remains and will remain forever itchy, devoid of meaning. Bandaged countless times, diligently ignored, a thruce? Until the afternoon of the midweek; falling shadows of the rotting day, akin to a forgotten memory one tries to push away, fruitlessly. As if struck by a summerish fever, the hand moves, the hand creeps... Inevitable, hopeless, lost. Crawling in circle, over and over and over, back to the ol' fountain, where despite a strong will one always goes back to. The wound reopens, the bandage long lost in the wind. Moaning, scratchin' the ol' wound. Relief, overwhelming relief.. Nails, bloodied in red, a red inkling, a red ink, undeniable proof of indulgence. One washes it all away, in the pure fountain, the fountain of reason? Pink-ish, troubled. Bits of clots, a most reviled reflection. All around, the inescapable noise of the water, splashing, and the itch, the itch, the itch... ''Is change impossible? Cursed, forsaken, Mad?'' Perhaps the wound is all there truly is. Everything else, mere spectacle; distractions, an interlude, a pause yes, until one scratches madly, entire mind and body focused on the familiar, on the so familiar pain, this tingle, and throwing away, out of the window, one's will; shrinking to a laughable speck, dust of dust, long lost in the wind as well. The hilarious thing, the uproaring thing is that it matters not whether one indulges or not. ''It does not matter!'' One shouts, blood everywhere, a whole mess, fountain of blood. One's face, crimson and primal, stuck in a frightful expression. And covering the splashing of the water, a maniacal laughter, echoeing in the white void that surrounds all.