Prose

Flames and ashes

I’m not afraid of fire, I never was. I would stare at it until my eyes were burning and my hands start moving to touch that extravagant phenomenon that I always associated with the metaphorical aspect of just one part of the passion in me that panted behind my neck to let it come out and tear everything it inhaled. I had a burning desire to shred the skin from the bones, blending it with fire, to hurt me, but any wound would please me. And the voices in me would tell me it was a delusion, and of such magnitude that it could haunt me in the paranoia and the worthless sinfulness that would occur to me in melancholy. However, my voices were always absolutely in tune with my demons. And I always knew how to listen to those who had a blindfold over their mouth, made of lust and fornication, waiting for me to release them, to scream, to break the sound until only the echo remained. Even then, I heard what they were saying to me as I consumed the fire with eyes full of dust, feathers, and wax. They dissolved along with my “normal” human urges. But I’m more than human. As I look at my distorted face in the fire, I like what I see. I’ve never looked more like my interior than I did then. Every atom was pounding inside me, kicking my tissue and reminding me that I was born to burn and experience myself as I disappear in it and rising from it, again. I’ve never run away from the thieves of my deepest desires. I let them come close enough only to turn them into ashes. The adrenaline in me was mesmerizing. My existence only made sense when I was in sync with my true nature, with a passion that no one could ever restrain or stand. The provocation of that fire manifested itself in every big moment. I felt the need to extinguish it. I was forced and pushed to the edges that were never the definition of expanse inside me. And I always knew that fire represented every hidden urge in me and evocation to something fundamental in me. No, I was never afraid of the fire, but of what would happen when it’s extinguished, when someone attempts to take it away from me. Will I rise from it again or become the remnant of its remains? Will the ashes remain or will I become part of them? What if the fire extinguishes when I burn the most? What if my passion flared into the flames of eternity and I remained in its maze, lost forever? Smoke, vapor, fog, nothingness. That’s all that’s left of me. The wind passes through me like I was hovering and didn’t exist. And all the space is mine and meant for me, space made up of flames that permeate my body. And in my veins, only ashes will remain, as the flow of my beginning and ending in the fire, nothing except it.

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