There is a fire burning before me. It is a good flame—sturdy and predictable. It undulates gently, crackling and popping in steady cadence. The crickets are joining in unison now, their song reverberating in the thin November air.
As an immature and impulsive child, I would often make fires burn as big and bright as possible. I’d tirelessly scour the area for twigs, dry leaves, pinecones, brittle branches—anything that would catch flame. Once I’d amassed a sizable pile, I’d throw it into the flame in one fell swoop. I would then step back excitedly and watch the fire roar to life, absorbing—like a sun-deprived plant finally placed into the sunlight—the unbearable heat emanating from the flame. Flickers of light flashed across my eyes as I watched my painstaking offerings curl into nothingness, everything culminating in one fleeting, unforgettable memory.
As much as my heart would stir in the presence of such excitement and chaos, so too did I understand its unsustainability; for an overwhelming sense of despair would arise from watching the once passionate, roaring flames diminish just as quickly as they had risen, only quiet embers left glowing in their place.
My mother once told me that love and maturity are like a fire built upon logs. What starts off bright and passionate can never last. Only the fool builds a fire from tinder and branches alone.
There is a fire burning before me, and I’m only growing older. How long before this hunger consumes me? Is that part of me growing smaller, I wonder—or simply waiting?
marginalia 