If I was to write a fiction,
there would be no characters,
nor a plot, nor lyrical expectations
just a blue scenery from my imagination
where cliffs are kissed by glacier snow
and saltwater cascade along their endless flow
where cosmic lights are framed with inlets called fjord
and lovers sing to the moon with melodious chords
where the ombre sky meets the liquid wine dark blue
and the sea fondles with the loving heavenly hue

And my legs itch,
Inside, like ants crawling in my veins,
Like an energy being held down,
Held back.
The itch,
That never goes away,
As I try to remain still,
As I try to focus.
The itch.
As if I wasn't meant to remain this way.
As if I was meant to travel and move.
As if I was meant to change and evolve.

And the itch is not just in my legs.
It's in my soul.
As I look out a window on a sunny day,
Or sit within the confines of a stagnant building,
Or look at the sun twinkling on water,
Or look at the stars waltzing in the black velvet of night.

I itch.

I feel
the itch.