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I think of scales. The way it creeps across the skin for unknown reason. We apply salves. Mostly to our children and accept the way the doctor nods to affirm the negative. That we don't understand the underlying cause. What can be done? Nothing. It's been so forever in a way, and a day, or whatever the idiom. We apply the cream and push aside the question of unnatural motives. In our actions. In attitude. I mean, the Grin and bear it. Apply the poultice. Make do. It is what it is. Carry on. I look at my little self, in backward curiosity. My neighbors' children are suffering, an itch un-scratchable, with skin peeling. When we are nearing the end of Days, in the scheme of ills, it is dismissible as a minor inconvenience. Right? But I want an alternate truth. A condemnation of something. Something to fight, with Hate's last breath. Because. Whatever it is, it is Symptomatic. This close to the skin. One step closer to our grave, like in the undertaker's dream. Decay of living tissue. There is rejection. Something is trying to rise to the surface. In discomfort. It is already dead at your doorstep of flesh and blood. Dry, red, inflamed. And you shrug, "It's nothing. Eczema."
09.03.2023
(Yet Another) CoI5 @BJLeCrae