Instantaneous and in a flurry,
I sometimes lose tracks of the thoughts that consume my imagination,
Like Brownian motion, neverending,
Yet fluid and traceable in the presence of an external light.

It depresses me,
A good idea procrastinated,
Words and emotions left unconveyed, unrelayed,
Remembered under the cold water of my bucket bath some 48 hours later,
To my dismay.

That’s just the way it is, though,
With sparks,
They light up your world for a fleeting moment, but,
If you’re lucky,
You’ll whip up some flammable material to keep it lit for a while.


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