thoughts and sparks

for a mind to catch fire there must be a haze of smoke and friction first. thoughts crushed together and stripped apart. labled mental images like debris and splinters all crowded together reminding one of a train full of refugees waving hello. warm little and sparks. the mind attacking itself and its subject. Grinding against its topic; it's sensual, the warm the grazing, glancing, gashing, gallop of the rough against smooth, sandpaper against skin. tearing and searing and breaking itself free into the cool air, promising relief and pulled back again across the bow of hot angry friction. motivation waning... thoughts begging for either relief or reward, each proposition on the pile is dry kindling for the inferno, still furiously fast asleep. That frustrated pile of potential is itching to spring alive and burn. But when it catches, and the dead brown blinks orange against the cool humid dusk, a flickering new-born flame gasps into existence. the infant tongues grow, lapping at the fingers of rejoicing wood. no longer lumber, this tightly bound corpse of a once beautiful thing doomed to the cramped tenement state of matter, promised nothing but rot and damp decay, now sensing it has been choosen by fire, and it will soon receive its wings.  like a soul, snatched out of the nothing, the mind begins running like oil on porcelain. the wet gray rot pulsing and thundering to life, that which was dead lives again. and i begin to understand...