Searching for sparks

This piece is a little experimental and mostly accidental. I’d welcome constructive feedback.

Do we measure sparks by the fire they produce? By how they sprout tongues and feet, traveling miles, sometimes lighting a ring of fire so they’re back where they broke out?

What about the sparks that don’t empty themselves, that never find fuel, the ones that die after a single moment of brilliance?

And why don’t sparks have a longer shelf life? Why don’t they wait a moment longer before dying?

Sometimes I wonder if I have the spark, that last remnant of what you’d call, inspired magic. A few other times, I wonder if I am the spark, igniting a few around me. Today is one of those days, when I question such hypotheses.

And what if, right now, I’m swimming in a trench, equipped with gills and fins, moving with the current, or even against it? What if I’m moving with blinkers on, my senses numbed, treating the fluid flesh of water like a skyful of air, expecting to breathe out fire, when what I need most, is to come to the surface, catch an eyeful of sunlight, and dive down to the trenches again, with that precisely timed whip of my tailfin?

What if fires could live in water too? What if they already do?

And who knows, someday, a fragment of a fire might leap off the rocks on land. It might slash its way through the waters and make its way to the trenches or float in limbo between the surface and the ocean bed.

As for me, I will keep swimming. I must be in good shape when I meet that red hot burst of red, floating or swimming. Or sinking.

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