The stubborn flame

It only takes a lit­tle for me to burst into flames. This ardor sur­pris­es me as it erupts like an impa­tient vol­cano. All it takes is a pinch of desire, an impos­si­ble image, and I find myself trem­bling as I did at first love. How uncon­trol­lable I was then ! A small thing would set off the wrong valves. I would lose the flu­ids of my con­scious­ness like a full bladder.

I used to think that I had matured, being old enough not to have these jolts. The sea­sons have passed their rake. My aspi­ra­tions have been pruned time and again. My voice, loud and uncon­trolled, has long been con­tent with a spring of straw. Sat­urn, as with all of us, took thir­ty, six­ty years to rule the gar­dens. My teacher picked me up some­what extinct, tries to revive the riv­er of my tremo­los ever since.

All it takes is a bit of pep­per, a spicy word, the tec­ton­ic creak­ing of my heart, for the body to become intox­i­cat­ed sud­den­ly, the mind so drunk that its breath is sharp, its stom­ach in knots. The flame, the dan­ger­ous and joy­ful one, still man­ages to smoke even in the deep waters. I could give my soul back to a lit­tle dev­il who would undoubt­ed­ly eat my poor flesh. The fire, the blood that hits the skin of my eardrums, the ear of my ideas, every­thing is an excuse for pyrotech­nics, for the dan­ger of a pow­der keg.

It will prob­a­bly end up exhaust­ing and killing me. What does it mat­ter how long the meal and the plea­sure last, since giv­ing up life will be my last desire and blas­phe­my, my last tune that I will sing, ine­bri­at­ed by some morphine.