Inside my skin there is an itch
Has this ever happened to you? You’re suddenly aware of an itch you can’t scratch and you’re not even sure you’re actually itchy or if it’s all in your head? There's a feeling there, something, somewhere, but you can't quite place its location. Maybe you're reaching out to nowhere, unsure of what you're reaching for? Or you’re momentarily aware of how strange it is to be alive, walking around in a body that isn’t actually you but holds your sentience and operates your every move like a machine? Well, studies show this blog post might be for you! If overanalyzing everyday occurrences from a metaphoric lens was a sport, I’d be an Olympic gold medalist. Seriously, though, has this ever happened to you? Asking for a friend.
I’m primarily using this physical description as a launchpad for another, far more numbing sentiment that's been on my mind. Sometimes, no matter how much we try to define how we feel, certain senses are undefinable. Like the human body, our emotions have far more exceptions than adherences to the rules. I've never, truly, felt unable to convey how I feel; detailing even the most mundane thought is my aforementioned special gift. But 2026 has given me a taste of a new feeling, bitter in flavour: indescribability. It doesn't even sound completely right using that word as a placeholder, but it's human and true. It's become obvious that my last few posts have muddily navigated existentialism, a general listlessness, or most certainly the insecurity of feeling stagnant. I'm not a trusted, peer-reviewed source, we know this, but I'm grateful to have an audience that's willing to question alongside me, even for a something I don't exactly know how to define. As we near the year's halfway point, maybe I'm slipping farther into a melting pot of meh? Like that insatiable itch, I can't make it go away but I also can't figure out what it's craving. There's a hungry animal somewhere. I can't see it, I can't hear it, but there's no doubt it's lurking. Naturally, as those who know me personally can attest, I needed to google very specific questions to see if literally ANYONE on the internet felt similarly.
And just like I should have predicted, the undefeated hero of internet sleuthing appears at my gnawed fingertips. We have touched down in nirvana and it's name is Reddit.com, amen. Immediately, I came across a handful of posts across an expansive range of subreddits (seriously, from r/Jung to r/languagelearning) with people asking similar questions. I've been pleasantly surprised to learn that many languages legitimately do have a word to describe this indescribable knot in my gut. Most are calling on feelings of melancholia or nostalgia for parts of life lost, but there are two words, of German and Russian origin respectively, that reach the ambiguity I'm struggling with. I discovered The Lost Words Dictionary, a website dedicated to the cataloging of words or terms untranslatable to English, which you can check out for yourself here. Regardless of how dramatic it may seem, I felt ease knowing there are others on this big ass rock who care about the same nerdy wordy things as me. All of the research and information I'm going to talk about can be linked back to this resource and the lovely unemployed people of Reddit. AGAIN, I am not a trusted academic source. DRAFT NONE should not be appearing in your final papers!
Sehn·sücht [“ZAYN-zoohkt”]
Noun
From the German words “sich sehnen” (to yearn) and “sucht” (addiction or compulsion). A profound, almost existential longing for something that may never be clearly defined.
Without a 1-to-1 translation, the term most accurately translates to "yearning addiction," which just feels so apt, huh? That perspective invites a new line of thinking: are we all just addicted to wanting something more? And, pushing the nails further into the proverbial skin, is it that forever insatiable longing that makes life meaningful? I guess that's why people always seem to say those that have everything are always wanting, wanting, wanting, more, more, more. I can recognize certain wants in my life; certain aspirations that I've held for so long they almost feel intertwined with who I am. I've never really stopped to think about it, but I've had several dreams for my life for so long that I wouldn't know how to feel if I ever reached them. There's always this hefty tug toward the next "big want." It fascinates me how unwilling we are as humans to give ourselves the grace to feel complete, even just for a moment. We can only feel accomplished for so long before life embeds a shame in us. You must do more. You must do it all but also not enough and then you die.
I wonder, maybe, if we're all just subconsciously longing to return to the womb? No one remembers the time we all spend in liquid limbo, but I often think about the innate pull within us to find our way back there. Why is sleeping in the fetal position such a comfort? Why are sensory deprivation tanks so calming to the mind and the body? I think our bodies hold onto far more memory than our brains do. I'd like to believe those phantom itches or feelings we can't quite place are physical reminders of memories we've forgotten. Does that make sense? Maybe.
Toska ["TOHS-kah"]
Noun
Russian in origin, approximations include "anguish," "longing," or "melancholy." A deep spiritual anguish without a specific cause — a sensation of great longing with nothing to long for.
My second point of reference is far more drenched in sorrow than the other, but I think that pain adds proper nuance. While I've dealt with the frustration of not knowing what I'm searching for, it's the disarming sadness that comes alongside it that propels me to stress. From researching this term, I came across a quote from writer Vladimir Nabokov:
No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.
While I'll always love the English language as my first language, the language I found my passion in, I will concede its frequent crudeness. There is a reason so many profound senses and sentiments are untranslatable to English. Despite centuries of time and shifts in speech, it remains a rigid, colonial language, unwilling to embrace the ambiguity life insists upon. Nabokov's quote hones in on the truth: the indescribability of the term is the point. It's fluid definition gives reasoning to the unreasonable. You can only understand what it means when you feel what it means. My brain doesn't like that because I think in English. My constant internal monologue feels this feeling and hits a solid wall of discomfort because I can't place it. The inability to categorize something is a violent restlessness in both my body and my mind. I write, I make sense of things, I define how I feel because it's what I do best. Being unable to express myself in words is my greatest frustration (and no doubt my own writer's hubris.) What I've learned from these two concepts is that 1) life itself is not meant to accommodate the living, and 2) longing always exists in our bodies whether or not we choose to interrogate it. We're designed to want it all while knowing we'll never get there. Sometimes there isn't a reason. I hate that SO BAD and that's how I know it's true.
We ache and its a gift.
Happy Pride Month to my glorious gays and theys! It's a gift to be queer, especially when I get to surround myself with all you beautiful degenerates in our little online neighbourhood. If you're curious, I created a new page called "In Rotation" where I've shared some of my current favourites in music, movies, and books. It'll update every so often when I remember it exists!
With hugs n kisses (respectfully),
PJ
P.S.
Happy Birthday Aly!