Just as most settle in at home base to count to one hundred while the sun seeks his hiding place behind the horizon (where he's sure he won't be found for hours), the slow burn increases. It jolts with a click, results in a spark, and grows into a flame. A flame of energy, of life, of restlessness to connect and do and be. Desiring something greater, bigger, more alive than the night before.
It flickers and lilts from left to right seeking other flames, for it would be a marvelous tryst to entangle and build with another. Fire igniting fire. Nevertheless, so seldom are others found, for multitudes have turned back to the standby pilot light position from which the flame has just departed. They feel they've worked to sustain a glow all day and now long for the peacefulness of the cooling embers. They have no fuel left to burn brightly and join in the adventure. There are no energy reserves to expend - especially on a wandering flame. When the light approaches, the doors repeatedly slam shut and the resulting breezes dare to blow her out. It cannot be denied that the flame, on occasion, becomes nearly extinguished, wanting not to waste the energy, herself, and wearied by the fight to remain illuminated.
However, in the expanses of darkness, the brightness is determined only to grow with sharpness and tenacity. A deafening buzz follows the click. The electricity sparks off in pops and snaps, continuing to reach out with longing. Hoping to connect and do and be... something greater, bigger, more alive. Brighter. Providing warmth to another. Seeking forests with no boundaries. She wants to burn in the way of her youth and retraces the trails of distant memories.
Under deep, moonless skies, the blaze erupts, glowing and growing against the black. A fiery celebration, even if just a celebration of one. But, no less a celebration. Colors bursting. Fireworks of flame. Coals screaming from the hallelujah heat--
--But, gasp. Choke. No air! No air! As all dances under the constellations do, the festivities are suddenly dampened by a thick blanket of fog and remembrances much stronger than those glorious youthful trails. The freedom of the night is ceasing.
"This is a no-burn area," the fire recalls. "It is not acceptable to freely flicker. I dare say, not even in my own backyard. Especially at this time. Especially in this way." The flame has been the pupil, and experience, the teacher. The education has gone against all which the flame has known and held in her core, but life has broken her of the hopes of how it could be with heavy, drenching buckets of how it is. Besides, aurora is approaching. And, the glowing sun and the fire cannot share this space. On the rare occasion when the attempt is made, the flicker is small and weak. Dull and lifeless.
So, the flame reluctantly loosens her yearning grasp on the nighttime and surrenders to the glow that is growing ever so slowly in the eastern skyline. 'It is time to retreat,' as she does before each dawn. 'I soon must hibernate,' as she settles into each morning. 'It will be a seemingly endless wait until my next roar,' as she sleepwalks through each day while her heat wanes to hardly a whisper. But the daydreams of trails that have not yet been explored carry her through the sunlight hours until the golden orb seeks his nocturnal hiding spot once more. Then, click, spark, flame... and the fire can dance, connect, do and be all she has anticipated in her woolgathering without limits. Yes, it is always merely a quick trot around the floor after each stoking, but the dream-inspired dance is what keeps the fire aflame night after night after...