Infection

My hands are covered in these small bumps, standing in bas-relief, high above the rest of my finger flesh. Every instinct in my primitive body is telling me to feed these bumps, to itch the hell out of them viciously and repeatedly until the itch dissipates (the itch never dissipates.) Instead, they grow and grow into mushy inflamed expectations that just plead constantly for a growing amount of attention. My fingers are now large round sausages, red with frustration and stinging with dissatisfaction. The only remedy is to run them under full-force, flowing ice water. Within a few seconds, I can feel my flesh, my blood, my muscles, my bones, turn numb. My fingers are now disillusioned to the pain, hiding behind ice from the streaks of poison ivy. The ignorance sure is bliss. And bliss means happiness, and happiness means living large! (for three.) And nothing else seems to matter quite so much, even those basic primitive instincts (such as compassion maybe?) Maybe i'm just not suppose to have such tangible feelings to peter pan. I know never ever land would never yield fulfillment for my simple little life, but it just seems so much easier.