My tiny spark wasn’t enough to keep you warm, and you snuffed me out. Spark became smoke, and smoke turned to flame. Flame became fire, roaring and spreading among the trees. Now, do you dare ***** me out? You belittled my spark, and are now in love with my heat. Come, warm your fingers next to me and I’ll burn you like paper at 451 degrees

Basements are often dark and cold. Seldom do we find one set with embroidery, cushions and warmth. No one ever really depicts a basement this way; as a room of comfort. So when I was little, I wouldn’t dare go down there alone. Oh, no. The cobwebs and creaking pipes within the silence were too much for these wobbling knees. While a sister stood watch, I turned on every light to make way for whatever it was I had gone in search of; tiptoeing quickly as if not to stir the monsters lurking within the bricks.
As I grow older, I learn to find comfort in knowing that everything I fear configures only behind the doors of my mind; where I have learned to laugh and poke at monsters created but never named. And silence is quite easy to fear; leaving room for nightmarish construction. Basements hold the space for such creations that bedrooms hold too much character to possess.
Remember now, a transformative possibility. Run your fingers over cement walls, breathe steady against the still. Make this quiet room a harbour if you find one no where else.