what it actually means: to destroy self-confidence/pose; make ashamed.
what it totally should mean: a wicked bonfire that lasts all night and leaves its participants covered in soot and mildly embarrased by their drunken actions but moreso pleased with the raging-party legacy they're sure to leave behind for years to come.
Curious is my curse.
Always thinking, always wondering till my head hurts.
Diving too deep in the dark ocean trenches.
My lungs scream, my heart pounds.
The dark ocean trenches are empty.
Curious is my weapon.
Like a snake waiting to strike,
Words are my venom.
Like a machine gun,
My tongue rattles.
Heavy worded bullets,
Wound the enemy.
Curious is my lover.
Deep in the night,
I let my mind wander.
Where no explorer dares to,
Where no expedition goes to.
Curious is the father to my ideas,
I am curious,
My body is the question,
My soul is the solver.
Now, I just have to find the answer.
The dictionary says:
A small fiery particle thrown off from a fire, alight in ashes, or produced by striking together two hard surfaces such as metal or stone.
My own personal definition:
A spark is the beginning of a hot and heavy relationship with another individual.
Twenty years later and he still lights the spark that sets my soul on fire.
1. the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.
2. an institution for people needing professional care or supervision.
1. relating to the place where one lives.
2. (of a sports fixture) played at the team's own ground.
1. to or at the place where one lives.
1. (of an animal) return by instinct to its territory after leaving it.
2. move or be aimed towards (a target or destination) with great accuracy.
* * *
home. the soft burning fire in the corner, a red-orange glow filling the dim-lit room. the heavy scent of ashes in the air, sinking. drowning in the sofa, into the darkness. it’s raining outside. you can feel it. the taps on the glass, the rush of raindrops. someone is in the kitchen. you can hear it. the clanks of dishes, the movement of feet against cold tiles. upstairs, there’s no one. you can imagine it. the empty bedrooms with open doors. the windows are closed but there’s a chill. there’s a breeze that rustles the perfect made beds. the lights are off, the curtains drawn but something gives the rooms bright even in its coldness. something you can’t describe. you are downstairs in the living room, lying on the sofa. your head is leaning on the arms of the sofa, your eyes are wide open, but it feels closed, the world around you falling away like feathers. and you are slipping into darkness - but all you can feel is colours, lights, movements, an image of feet against a black and white floor before another overlaps; a man in the night, face shadowed his back blazing yellow-red-orange by the sun. it feels like your watching a scene, disjointed images that don’t fit together but feel right. and there’s a feeling in you that you can’t describe but it’s important. you’re sinking and sinking deeper and for a moment everything drops and you can hear your heartbeat in the silence. it’s quiet but very loud. and it’s all you focus on, the rise on fall of your chest, the way your heart thumps and thumps, the rough texture of the sofa on your skin. and there’s a song you can hear. somewhere far away, near the ocean in the sunset, feet in the sand there is a man who strums a guitar and sings. somewhere there’s a beat of one two three, the chimes of bell and a voice screaming out into the wilderness. the beats of your heart overlaps
with the song and it feels right. feels like there’s a power hidden inside you, slumbering waiting to be awakened. time stretches and every moment feels important, precious like if you don’t etch this into your soul right now you will regret it. the images flow in again, the song fading to a shuffle of clothes, lips tugging into a smile, the crease of skin as someone bursts into laughter. you move into the heart of summer, everything is loud and bright it hurts but in good away; like running away and away till your muscles ache and your sweating, heart lunching against your ribs and your are tired, but smiling wild with teeth. next, you slide into an ice rink, arms wrapping around each other, bodies pulling closer to each other, ice scraped by blades, wobbling knees, the echoes of breaths ringing in the air. and then you areaway into somewhere everything is falling, colours turning dull, the alive bright colours of the world losing their light and everything is draining away, turning to shades of grey. everything is quieter, tuned down. and you can focus on the little things, instead of having a clash of instruments banging in your ear. the silence. the air. nothing. and the world narrows down to you again. the raise of your chest, the beat of your heart quiet but loud. the breath caught in your throat. — home.
* * *