Where do you think the fire gets it colors from?
Is it the day it steals into night, the twilight it prolongs on the horizon? I personally think it’s neither.
The fire, like its name, gets its oxygen from all things alive. The flickering tip, burning red and fierce, is faith spitting tales into air. The bulky flames, twirling like a pirouetting dancers mad curls, the bright orange of dreams that expand and contract at will.
And at the deep white of its starry heart, closest to the scorching origins, are human emotions.
Raw, naked and burning hope. Despair. Love. Desire.
Is it this heart, bleeding and sizzling too bright, that feeds the dreams until they fuel the faith? Or is it the faith that conjures miracles out of oxygen and engineers dreams that transcend all human will?
I suppose, put simply, the question is, which came, was seen first: the heart or the hurt? The profane, or the profound.
Because it seems that for the larger context, its only the seen that matters. A grief overlooked becomes slight, a joy understated, undeserving.
Henceforth, happiness, when chosen, is usually just a dazzling drop of convenience in an ocean of discontent.
And I won’t stop looking at mine.