The Fireworks of Panic

Please note:  I've got a confession.  Lately I feel especially ridiculous when it comes to writing this blog.  I find typos, grammatical errors.  I need to be a much better editor than I am.  Worse yet, is the vulnerability I seem to shamelessly expose.  All that isn't stopping me. In an attack of insecurity,  I embarrassed myself by fishing for a compliment the other day.  I didn't get the desired result and yet. . .

Despite all this, I've decided that it's good practice to just keep going.  Part of me wants to fill pages with words.  Sometimes the quality sucks.  Once in a while, it does not.  So I'll persevere,  like the crazy old fool I'm probably turning into for no other reason that I want to write.  Why not?  What do I have to lose?  Read at your own risk.  I won't promise to be good.  I will promise to enjoy the process.

In my head, the fireworks of panic begin.  I try and run for cover but some days there is no place to hide.  A shower of sparks rain down on me.  The sky explodes.  I throw back my head and open my arms. 
"Come and get me!"  I shout.

Fighting only makes it worse.  This is my destiny.   The smell of sulphur fills the air.  If I'm in hell, than hell has one heck of a fire show.  Sinking into the burning grass, I look up and watch.  My mind opens and I find a way out.  Suddenly, I'm on a soft, grassy knoll and the fireworks are in the distance.  I look at the sky and witness a fatal beauty. 
"No one is getting out alive," I say. 
There is no one to hear.  The moment swallows me whole.  I sit in the belly of time.  I am a stone it can not digest.  Life casts me back in the game in a violent act of purgation.

"It could be so much worse," I say to the exploding sky.
The sky answers, "You take yourself much too seriously."
This makes me laugh.  The sky is right.  I can tell it wasn't listening to my words.  The sky is smart that way.

Again, I look up.  A cacophony of pure color punches holes in the night.  The sparks fade and disappear only to be replaced by a new display of fire and color.  The world smells like a battlefield.  The line between light and dark or war and peace is a very thin one.  I dance my name across it in big bold stokes.

No Kilroy.  No tagger with spray-paint fingers.  Just me.  I ride the loops and arches.  I can live with this, this life of fatal beauty, this horribly, wonderful life.  Under fire and darkness, the smell of smoke everywhere, life goes on for a while longer. 
"No one is getting out alive."  I whisper.  The whisper becomes a shout.
"I'm not going to take you too seriously, you, demon angels of fire.  You're going to remember that I was here.  The game's not over yet," but I'm talking to myself, again.  The sky isn't paying attention.  The sky is smart that way.