The spark begins deep in my soul, consumes thought after thought, grows larger. The fire is a compulsion that bothers me — its flames hammer and chisel away at my consciousness — wrench me, push me to the edge of insanity, to where I can feel my feet losing hold of the ground, and I have no choice but to stop and help it burn down softly before it becomes an uncontrollable inferno. The spark is my insatiable desire for expression, my inspiration.
This spark of inspiration can be a blessing, allowing me to imagine without restraints, to persevere past the ramparts of my mind. The fire that moves me is excitement, breathlessness, the joy of waking up — it is a loose connection to the ethereal.
Though the fire is an unearthly energy, I belong to the physical, and therefore am not capable of always indulging it; It is at these times that I fear the fire, because when I do not act it burns my soul with desire, pushes its flames against my lungs, starves them of oxygen. The frustrated energy looks for an outlet, and scorches every corner of my psyche, until the exposure weighs heavily on me; damaged, barren and useless, I admit defeat.
Is it that I am not capable of control over the inspiration within me, or do I allow myself to imagine desires so large that I willfully ignore the raging fury as it races towards me — Do I let it grow until my reason can no longer fathom it nor can reason bring me back to Earth gently?