Burning Eyes, Retch, That Itch in the Middle of Left Foot and Another Pitch of Melancholy

Burning eyes. The kind of sting that comes from too much screen time or a sleepless night, but this feels different. Like a fire in my mind, a heat that won’t burn out. It’s strange how everything else around me feels blurry, but this discomfort is sharp—always there. I close my eyes for relief, but there’s no escaping the irritation. Every blink makes it worse. And then there's that damn itch—right in the middle of my left foot. Always dormant but acts up during the weirdest of times. I’ve scratched at it so much now, it’s more a dull ache than anything else. It’s maddening, that feeling of something crawling under the skin, but there’s nothing to see, nothing to touch. Just that sensation, gnawing at me. I can’t even get comfortable. Even the most innocent movements trigger it. Ah, the retch—that feeling. You know, the one that rises up in your throat, uninvited, like a wave that threatens to spill over but never quite does. It’s almost like a reflex to everything that’s going on in my body. The burning, the itch, and now this—just the body’s way of saying enough. The sensation comes and goes, like it’s trying to get me to choke on whatever's bothering me, but there's nothing really there to spit out. Just the discomfort lingering in the back of my throat. Somehow, as if my body is conspiring against me, my mind spirals, too. That pitch of melancholy, sudden and deep. It’s like a shadow that falls without warning. I was fine, or at least thought I was. But now everything feels weighed down by a sadness I can’t put a name to. It’s not the kind of sadness that comes with loss, but more like a low hum beneath everything—quiet, steady, and relentless. It’s all a bit too much today—eyes burning, the endless itch, and this deep-seated melancholy that creeps in and makes everything feel heavy. It’s a subtle kind of torture, a reminder that something’s off, but it's never clear what. A mental overload, maybe? A signal my body is sending, telling me that something’s wrong and I just can’t quite catch it. It’s like the body’s language for all that’s unsaid. And today, it's speaking loud. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe not.

There were days where my need to leave, need to escape was fantastical. But now, it has changed. Something has changed. The tone, the edge of the feeling to escape has now become a need. Almost, psychological. It’s wild how that shift happens, isn’t it? How the once-distant fantasy of running away, of escaping, becomes something more urgent, more visceral. It starts off as a daydream—this place or that place, a different life, a different story. You picture it in flashes, in fragments, almost like it could be a movie reel of “what ifs,” something you could step into if the moment ever arrived. But now? Now, it feels like a pull, a weight in your chest. The kind of thing that claws at you in the quiet moments. The kind of feeling that goes beyond the romanticized escape and becomes an almost necessary impulse. It’s not about the fantasy anymore, it’s about survival. It's like the walls are closing in, the world’s edges are pressing too hard, and the only way to breathe again is to leave—physically, mentally, emotionally. It’s not just the thought of leaving; it’s the need to escape from the inside. The noise, the pressures, the routines, the same everything, all of it becomes too much to bear, and there’s only one way to get relief. Maybe it’s not even a place you want to go, just anywhere that’s not here. What changed? Maybe the fantasy turned real, or maybe you’ve reached the point where the discomfort of staying outweighs the fear of the unknown. Either way, it's more than just wanting to go somewhere else. It feels like needing to be somewhere else to even begin to feel okay again.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? The itch in the foot—small, nagging, always there. It’s like the body’s way of reminding you of everything that’s trapped inside, that you can’t quite get rid of. The itch never fully goes away, no matter how much you scratch at it. And the retch? That feeling that rises but never quite releases? It’s as if there’s something in you that needs to escape, to be let go, but you can’t find the release. It’s trapped there, stuck in your throat, or in your mind, and the more you try to push it out, the more it festers. You can’t scratch the itch, and you can’t purge the retch. Both are the body saying, something’s wrong, and I need a way out. The eyes, the windows to everything you’re trying to escape, but they only show you what’s in front of you. They can’t turn away, can’t look anywhere else. It’s like they keep seeing the same walls, the same reality, and it’s suffocating. No matter how much you want to escape or move beyond, the eyes hold you captive in the now. They refuse to let you see anything but what is, and in that, the reality of can't sinks in. That’s where the melancholy creeps in—the space between what you want and what you can actually do. It's not just a sadness, but a kind of quiet resignation, the acceptance that the escape isn’t coming, and the discomfort has nowhere to go. It’s a deeper sadness, born from that feeling of helplessness, from the realization that things can’t change just by wishing them to. The weight of the unmet need, the tension without release, piles up in the soul and spills out as melancholy. It’s like the mind and body are screaming for relief, and the eyes just keep telling you no, and in that silence, the sorrow grows. You end up stuck in that space between desire and impossibility, where there’s no clear way out. That’s where the heaviness settles in.

That’s a raw feeling, isn't it? A kind of weariness that stretches deeper than just physical exhaustion. It’s the kind of fatigue where you’re not just tired of your body, but of the whole process of trying to keep up, to push through. The mind keeps racing, the body keeps aching, and it all just builds until you wish for any kind of release. A full stop, a breaking point, just for everything to end. Not as a desire to escape to something better, but to finally, finally let go of the constant tension. The scream, the need to just release, but then there’s only silence afterward. A silence that promises nothing but an end to the noise, to the struggle. Then, darkness. As if everything around you can finally just collapse, like a theater show that’s reached its final act, the curtain falls, and it’s over. No more thoughts. No more weight. Just... nothing.

- Oizys.