I like fireworks. I always have. It's nothing more than a mere fascination. Although it has spiralled like a Catherine wheel, bursting through every vein and artery. You may call it some sort of pyromania - I call it a hobby. But they could be improved:
i. Fireworks are such a simple thing, glitter and gold and swirls; all products of the imagination. We need the unimaginable. Thoughts that linger like a barbed spear digging into the flesh. The impossible bursting into the sky, clouding your mind with gunpowder and burning into your mind.
ii. The sweet bitterness of picric acid lies deep in the blast of dunnite and God, I think it could make a spectacular firework. What a gorgeous shade of yellow. Too bad it's beauty would blow me to pieces, because if I survived, I'd light another.
iii. Have you ever seen the softness of nitrogen triiodide? A stunning shade of purple, a illusion of senseless sensitivity. Tears itself apart with nothing but a look, self destructive in nature. Such a shame, it would make the perfect eruption of smoke.
iv. Traces of acetone peroxide, pure as the beginning to the bite. Highly explosive and easily set off, I think we'd make a great pair. It wouldn't make it to Heaven above, but it'd make a lovely sound; I've always wanted to go out with a bang.
P.S. Destruction: Necessary for the creation of something beautiful. I stand - firework in one hand, match in the other, and tell you to watch as I light it.
09.11.2023