We are born with a Spark inside.
For a time, the Spark grows. Bones firm. Hair grows long. We learn to turn, to walk, to dance.
And the Spark grows. Churns up into a fire. Catapults its host forward through time with itinerant purpose.
The Spark peaks in a passionate fever pitch, and the world waits to be set ablaze.
The Spark is hungry, gorgeous, and easily offended.
The Spark is a cannibal. Without constant kindling, the Spark will eat itself, smoldering down and down, dull and mellow with ash.
Eventually the Spark puffs out, but it does not disappear. It bloats and heaves into a millstone of memories, heavy in your belly, the weight of all things left undone.
We are born with a Spark inside, and each of us has the potential to build a fire.