Where does it come from, fire? Not the match on the box, or the flick of propane at the stove, though I am curious of those too— the human technology far more integral to my life than the wifi I unplug at bedtime and forget to plug back in until 6pm, 9pm, the day having been lived out in the heat of the sun, that sky model for the star within.
I mean fire, the real fire, the pre-Prometheus fire that keeps a human humming. The fire that thrives in vast stretches of space without time, by which I mean freedom, and dies when overfed, or forgotten, but requires fuel, something to burn, someone to burn for.
Tell me about that fire. Do you know it? Have you felt it and fed it? Late nights without clocks or coffee, blank papers and black pens and a guitar that waits on the bed because it knows you’ll not need to sleep tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps the fire will have become manageable by then, but not tonight, tonight is for burning— that kind of fire. The fire that simmers by daylight when you have to be accountable and accounted for, talking of cabbages and kings when there are poems running through your veins and melodies in your mind and if only you were given a moment alone, the blood would rush to your brain and a song would spring forth as did Athena from the skull of Zeus, fully grown and armored for battle.
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