The Itch That Knew Too Much
At 21, he thought he was invincible—immune to seasons, sunscreen, and long-term consequences. Too busy being in the moment to notice it was cold, dark, and somewhere near Canberra..
He did not know – at 21, most don’t – so he let it be. Seasons? What are they anyway? A cold snap; winter approaches. The old know, but the young – those curious naysayers – persisting in rebellion, in experimentation, in evolving, in defying their fault-ridden mentors. He did not know that this bronzing sun would wane. He was the moment and he did not expect the change. And he was in no way prepared for illness.
Somewhere near Canberra. Some intersection – some traveller’s decision-point. It was dark, it was cold, it was real, it was wonderful. The damage began. Why had he sent the tent home? He had not had to use it for some time. So why carry it? Like any error of judgement, it made sense. He had not yet made sense of mistakes. He was decades away from enjoying them.
He did not know that thirty years on, that itch in his lungs would still be coughing up advice—unwelcome, unheeded, and oddly prophetic. He did not know that the body remembers what the mind edits, that every wheeze is a footnote to a decision made in youth and italicized by regret. He assumed the cough was environmental. Turns out it was ideological.
Harry is a recovering satirist, part-time philosopher, and metadata tinkerer. His archive spans two decades of metaphysical mischief, theological punchlines, and poetic nonsense. He believes in satire’s transformative power, the elegance of expressive metadata, and recursion—once writing a poem that never ended and a script that crashed browsers.
This piece is a poignant reflection on youth, hindsight, and the slow dawning of wisdom. It’s lyrical, melancholic, and quietly profound — a meditation on the unknowingness of early adulthood and the long echo of choices made.