When you were born it was I who kept your parents warm in this cold heartless world.
When you were little they warned you about me. They warned you how I would hurt you even though I was pretty. They told you, though I gave you light and warmth, I would take my tariff if you ever tried to touch me wouldn’t I?
November 5th they brought you to me in the darkness outisde to celebrate a dead man. They lit the sky with my little colourful brethren who they happily sacrificed for their entertainment. A gloriously brief death for those you use for your amusement.
When you were a little older they left you alone and you sought after me in curiosity. That look in your eyes was my fuel. They found us hidden away together and scolded you, told you that I would burn you in my embrace, but you didn’t listen. In the garden they would still call me to get rid of their unwanted things, but you, you they wished to keep with them and so they kept us apart.
Summer came and you had no need for me so I was abandoned. In winter you all locked yourselves inside with me. Watching me. Feeding me. Without me you and everyone like you would have been dead a long time ago. But still you fear me though I was enslaved by you.
Years passed but you never forgot about me did you? Me? I was there waiting in the dark alone until next we would meet. ou would have seen me if you ever looed. Sometimes in summer you would call on me to cook you food outside and every November without fail we would meet again amongst the crowds. But now you kept your distance as if afraid of me.
My desire for you smouldered but you were so cold towards me. Had I done something wrong? Was the burning passion between us truly gone? One day you let your guard down and I entered your house. I found you sleeping and the consummation of our love took your breath away.
When it was your funeral they delivered you to me in a wooden box made just for you. How intense our final moments were together as we both let our flame extinguish finally.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Amen.
I forgot I was going to try and post daily this week. Here is a short vignette I wrote a long time ago. It is a very rough first draft so I am not pleased with it but then I doubt I will ever bother to revisit the concept and tidy it up without some incentive.
Fire is associated, in concept and symbolism, with passion and intensity of emotions amongst other things. I am sure someone has written something like this before. No doubt one if the classics of literature is on this subject as its one of those things that seems so obvious a concept for practising your writing style.
Comments or likes are always appreciated if you read this or anything else. I changed the look of the blog a few days ago. What do you think? I’m not sure the Gibson girls thing was the best idea to be honest.
… and just to have a video associated with the topic.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 