Quest

When you wake, the apartment is warm and the morning mild, winter sunshine trickling up the quiet street. The past day moves slowly like a hangover across your brow, but it's leaving, you know it, you can feel your chest lift in deep, clear breaths: you've made it through the storm. A broom rests at the corner of the bed, waiting for you to sweep away the debris and start anew.

The fire destroys, it burns and razes your fledgling shoots, but when you survey the damage, it turns out your core remained intact and what was lost in the blaze was the flurry of distraction, of fluff that never was going to get you where you were going, it was only low level brush. You didn't want to trudge around the forest floor.

You always meant to aim for the sky.