written by a prestigious QuirkyGirl member
Heavy incessant breathing flows through me, exhaling and inhaling every breath. I am a being who lives not for anything other than passion, that of which is inviting and enticing beyond compare. When things come with passion, well then you can never go wrong, can you?
I go over to the cabinet where I keep my slender and sleek brass music-maker, my trombone. I play with the lock and finger in the combination. My short arms reach and reach towards the way back of the tunnel and pull out a little flip-book with pep band tunes inside, a delightfully rigorous repertoire. My trombone case slides out onto the floor with a bang. Three latches unlatched, and then I open the expanisive case to see two golden parts shining out at me. I lift one and then the other and place them within each other until my trombone has been formed. I stumble to my chair and look around at a crowd of warming faces, giggling with glee. We are the pep band, we are the "good crew". The happiness of the game. It's opening night. We're ready to roll. Walking out onto the field, lined in perfect rows following each other as we proudly blast the Star Spangled Banner, all playing to the crowd as if we were delivering an inspirational speech. We retreat to the band stands. We giggle with glee. We are the pep band. Mouthpiece to my lips, a gush of air and the condescending sound of improvisation, the drummers excited with fierce attitudes, lively and devious we echo through the fields. We are the pep band. I struggle to play on, but I do, with a smile hidden behind my trombone, lips licked, then pursed, then playing. All is well when that touchdown is scored, rising and playing. All of us emotionaly attached to our instruments. Passion, the burning fleet of it.
I am lying on my bed, thoughts dizzying through my mind. The room is spinning, like a ballroom. Filled with twirling delights of past memories. A notebook is opened with great relief, a pen held tightly in my hand. Pen to paper, the burning fleet of passion. Word by word spilled out from right within, writing nothing but everything and anything. Lyrics pour like blood being spilled. The burning fleet of passion.
Headphones in my ears, eyes closed. Imagining some people whoe should always be imagined. I reach out in the dark room of the approaching midnight hours and dance, and waltz with my imagination. Step by step into the night, twirling and jumping and sprawling about with this imagination. The burning fleet of passion.
A boy, a man to my eyes, our hands entwined. Gentle whispers of no empty promises ring in our ears, eyes fixated on each other. Hold me closer, dearest, we say through actions. Leaning in, eyes closed, smile curving, lips meet lips. A taste of bitter sweet goodness, the world melts away and we freeze in the action of the moment, talking through kisses. Love burning into each other, not just a kiss....one with more meaning that anything else. The burning fleet of passion.
Sitting outside in the night, whispering to myself to the stars and the moon, somewhat wishing, somewhat promising myself things. The burning fleet of passion causes me to cry, to sob into the night, for being without is being dead, and how dead I do feel. The burning fleet of passion goes round and round and round and round. Tears trickling, rivers tricking, and the burning fleet of passion goes round and round and round and round.
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