Sure, it's a metaphor. What else could it be other than an arsonist's inner thoughts just before the match strikes, standing there still, doused, with an empty gas-can in hand. They are words kept to one's self. Never to be uttered save for some sad prelude to a Stars song. And those Stars kids are no arsonists. At least, I'm pretty sure they're not. No, it's a metaphor. But I wonder what it means when it's not meant for me.
[stop]
Because personally, I believe I've burnt it all up inside. And after that, that Paris love, found and not had, I'm afraid there's nothing left to set to flame. Or at best, just a tiny bit more. Paris accomplished what it was supposed to, it seems. The distractions are gone. There's nothing left for them to grab onto.
Not for a little bit at least, or not like before I left for Paris. I have this sensational feeling rolling through me that's akin to knowing what I want. To an exactness. Or to a particular aura. And it's not so specific so as to be a rare sight. Just not a common one is all. And at present she has a name and a face. She stands out bright in a crowd. But I won't see her anytime soon I think, or ever again really. Nothing could distract me like her, and now it seems she never will. Everything in that close depth of field is fuzzy and unfocused, and the distance is sharp as a morning cock crow. It looks beautiful.
I'm stepping strong towards it now. At least I think I am now more than then. I just hope I'm on the right mountain trail.
