it starts in the basement. that's where you found the apple slices: the cores missing, the skins in soft piles, the stems swallowed. when i look back i'll always remember the look on your face as you opened the furnace. the pilot was still on, the flames licked the(more) open air, and all you cared about was the apple pie, roasting to perfection. there's something about pie that makes you think it will last forever. but it never made it upstairs.
i wondered how it tasted so i kissed you. that wasn't my first mistake.(less)
In the basement of our souls we can find our true passions. The neglected offspring of our mind that we tucked away and ignored.
There they sit for years, no development, no future. Waiting for a moment to feel useful, to feel relevant again. Yet we push onward,(more) embracing thoughts that seem practical.
With time the basement of the mind begins to erode. Mold grows, gunking up everything pushed deep down below. There they remain, collecting dust, waiting to find meaning.
Over time, more of our passions are pushed below. Perceived priority deems dreams irrelevant. Thoughts of the basement are looked at with scorn for being in the basement in the first place.
A time comes, typically at a life turning point, where we are forced to do some spring cleaning. The basement can no longer be ignored.
What is found is old treasures of the past, things we let fall away due to arrogance. Beautiful trinkets of our mind that we refused to acknowledge.
The frustration of the discovery is beyond any stressor we will ever experience. It is maddening to realize the thoughts that were neglected, the dreams never pursued.
Desperately we try to revive the aspects of our souls we denied. Brushing off the cobwebs and trying to fix whatever decay that has occurred.
The pursuit is hopeless in the end. The damage is too far gone, and the aspects of our soul we threw away can never again be the same. Only fragments remain.
We leave the basement more broken than we were going into it, knowing what could of been. We can't bare to clean it out after realizing what is there. Now, instead of scorned nuisances taking up room, they are regretful antiques to fragile to use. We become hoarders of our dreams.(less)
"The Waters. Don't fall in."
(more) "Oh... okay." They waved as he traipsed downstairs. "Yeah, he's gonna die."
The Farther down he went--shouldn't he have reached the library by now?--the more distinctly he could hear it. The gentle slosh of water against wood, as if there was some manner of pier just below. But light was near absent this far down. He didn't trip, much to his surprise, even though the light from his cell phone didn't illuminate his steps.
"I'm tired... what the hell, did I pass it?" He sat down, exhausted despite his endurance, holding onto the banister and resting his head on his raised arms. "Maybe I should go back up..." The water was more apparent now, and it had gotten colder as he descended. It didn't smell like the ocean, but there managed to be a 'sea-breeze'. Well, if he stayed here... he wouldn't fall in, at least...
He stirred groggily, and dropped a hand in his lap without meaning to, fingers becoming wet.
"Huh... shit!" Black water was creeping up his legs, soaking into his pants. "Holy shit!" His feet were numb but he launched into a sprint back up the stairs, falling on all fours to climb when he felt the water lick at his heels.
No, no, no, no nononononoNONO, NOOOO!
"He fell in."
"Well, that was hardly fair though, he was a sitting duck, falling asleep like that."
"How should we welcome him back." Sugar lumps dissolved into the fresh pot of tea.
"Let's not say anything; we'll wait for him to figure it out."