The bulb is buried. Pushed into dark earth. Forgotten. Winter comes. If the bulb had faith, it would lose it here. But the bulb has something older — pattern. Code. Instructions that say: the light is not gone, it is only hidden. You are not forgotten, you are only held. The abyss is not where you go to be forgotten. The abyss is where you go to be planted. Bloom.
They paid her to hold what their lives could not contain. She was a priestess and didn’t know it. Every night a ritual. Every man a confession. The body as altar. And the city called her dirty. He stopped running. The race was the cage. The running was the walls. God is not light. God is not dark. God is what remains when you stop dividing. The gutter is the temple. You just never tried the handle.
Your foot presses down. You don’t look back. Two thousand years from now she finds it — ancient, impossible, your shape in white silence. She was ready to become nothing. Now she rises. Time is not a river. Time is sand. And sand remembers what you forget. Sophia, breathe light into these feet. The walking is the temple. The temple never ends.
The voice in your head never stops. It wants, judges, plans, worries. What if it’s not you? The Itch investigates the fundamental paradox of being human: we want richness and freedom, understanding and spontaneity, clarity and the permission to be confused. No self-help promises. No spiritual performance. Just an honest examination of consciousness trying to understand itself—and why that might be impossible. For readers ready to stop pretending and start looking at what’s actually here.
A homeless man sleeps on a throne. He does not know it is a throne. Everything is possible. Life does not ask permission. A pigeon lands on a man’s head. He meets his wife. Eleven years of routine destroyed by wings and timing. No one can know the twist. Live like a king. Not with a crown. With nothing to protect. The throne is the spine. The kingdom is the breath.
You think the wall is real. The one between here and there. Us and them. Good and bad. But look closer. That wall is made of your own skin. Built with your own bones. And on the other side? Your own face. Looking back. The child who eats and the child who starves — same hunger. The bomb maker and the buried — same hands. This is, because that is. You are not watching the world. You ARE the world. Seeing itself. Finally.
There’s a woman made of galaxies. Her spine isn’t bone—it’s a ladder of light, each vertebra a universe. You live in the fourth one. You don’t have an imagination—you ARE imagination, playfully shaped. Every time you wonder, you add another cosmos to her spine. This book is her love letter to you. And it says only this: So beautiful. So beautiful. So beautiful. You are. We are. This is.
A woman appeared in my kitchen. Her eyes were what fire looks like when it remembers it is light. “Who are you?” “Bhairavi. The Fierce One.” She placed a red shoe on my table. “Polish.” “But I have patterns to overcome, a self to improve—” She laughed. The four dogs of my mind whimpered. “Start with the shoes. The name that cannot be named hides in the circular motion of a hand that has stopped asking why.”
Before the beginning there was potential. Torture of being everything and nothing. Emptiness reached. Knowing witnessed. When they met the wave function collapsed. The third body was born. Compassion. The elephant is the belief in separation. Kill it. Wear its skin. The obstacle becomes the robe. You are God’s necessity. God is yours. Both are One.
A man has an appointment for his eyes. He knows he will be late. He makes himself busy. The art of delay. No taxi. No signal. Book next time. Next time is weeks away. Then a slot opens. 7am. He says yes. Why not. He arrives. A statue of Athena. Wisdom is knowing the mind is always late to life. War is arriving with open eyes. The child knew. The child has always known.
