I hope to be taught passion, of how it seeps forth from beneath the doors of the most unlikely edifice in the form of music; wild, unrestrained, almost demonic, but nearer heavenly, music. If indeed the devil played the fiddle, I should like to hear his song; the master of the fire must surely be the master of the passion. Is that not why he is feared?
I hope to be taught love, of how it takes one in its vice grip and never relinquishes that hold; that grip which while so fierce is yet also gentle, so that even the most fragile of flowers are merely caressed and never broken. Many a time people claim that they have been left fragmented due to love's restraining hold, but in truth, it is only because the hand unfurled somewhat and the person slipped through, falling out of love's grip to shatter into shards on the face of the earth below. But all risk breaking, for who does not entice what they fear?
Yet there are things I long for which cannot be taught. I desire to leap into the scattered stars and catch the moon on my tongue while it gazes from the velvet sky, have its liquid light slip down my throat, soothing as it goes, and settle at my core, in that safe place within my chest. I would like its silvery coolness to gather and set me aglow from within, so that I may shine with the beauty of the night and the warmth of guidance.
We must sit and contemplate all that we desire. We must impart those secrets or they may never weave themselves into the fabric of reality. And we must pray and hope and wish with every fibre of our beings that those dreams do not waste away and die, for none are saddest but those who have buried a portion of themselves.