There're days I miss more often than chances. There's been cold mania and slick depression that I've been feeding on for each of those days; in the same manner an infant chews on apples and biscuits. Some months, (perhaps a whole year) felt like incoherent steps on the sidewalks of life. Like one dream of something vaguely pleasant, a million light years away. Something I woke from, here, on earth. Something that keeps me from sleeping ever since. I still think of that wonderful firestorm sometimes. The one I extinguished for a while. The one I chased into the horizon. I still remember her, yes. Mad, smiling, tearing and burning in her silent fury. I remember...I remember her, tattooed by shades of living tongues of color. Red, orange, purple, shades that grew and disappeared like rings of beauty on her elegant skin. The skin that knew more than any man could read, that learned more that any book could teach.
Yet I am no living thing sometimes. I lie on sands, I crawl and whisper. A warm but cruel ocean that nurtures more than a sleeping psychosis. I feared that the water that I am will drown you. A while, I saw smoke and I got scared. Beautiful things should never die. Yet there's a compatible chaos in disasters. Floods and fires might not share the same blood but they revel in shrieks of panic. In loss. In disapproval. In the never ending hunger. For they're no strangers to any. And none are strangers to them. A blatant contrast their own existence creates.
Sometimes, as my face is smeared black with the gasoline of countless, careless rusty ships that refuse to die, I wonder: Do you still burn? Are you still the fire of a million degrees? Do you still want the world charred? I wonder because I still want it drowned.