Another Itch

My skin has always itched. Or, maybe I’ve just always scratched it. There may not be a difference, except for the cause. I used to think that someone could feel an itch for no reason; maybe I was just restless and my skin just reflected that unease in the only way it knew. I know now that no-one just feels things.
Nothing is felt that is not stirred to life by some force. Even invisible itches.

This afternoon I felt that familiar twinge; a peaceful day interrupted by the smallest, most acute irritation. This time I waited. Maybe this will pass. Surely I am not still bound by the same feelings that have hung over me since my birth. Instead, the itch worsened, moved back and forth like it was tempting my fingers. Eventually, I caved, but just before attempting to erase this feeling,
I looked close, brought my arm so close to my eyes that I could see the tiniest bumps and wrinkles in my skin that would be impassibly large valleys and mountains under a microscope. The culprit, a worm small enough that hundreds of them could fit on my smallest fingernail, wriggled enthusiastically across my arm.

I wondered at this barely visible creature, that it could cause so much discomfort, unignorable irritation. How did it get here — how had I not felt its approach — had it bitten me, and if so, what had I done to draw its ire except for existing — these questions swirled at once behind my eyes before I realized how silly all this was.

I flicked it from my arm, careful to allow it to keep living, just somewhere else. Just as soon as it had entered my world, the irritation was gone, yet the question remained. How many times had invisible wriggling things broken my peace before without me even guessing that they had a cause that could be flung away with the slightest effort?