Maybe it's the ashes from a childhood spent in lonely limbo between 'troublemaker' and 'prodigy' or the still-hot coals from a tumultuous teenagehood. Maybe it's my 'potential' finally showing up to the party and deciding to remodel the entire house, guests be damned.
This passion is my wildfire. It's burned through fears. It has burned me out of relationships, burned me into deep depressions, burned between jobs and travel and new opportunities. My passion isn't my weakness, but it brings me to me knees often enough to make me wonder if I'm not a slave to a fickle master. My passion isn't my heart, but it beats strongly and wildly enough that it feels as though it powers the gravity that makes my world spin. And it hurts. It bleeds when I feed it, it bellows and spits when I don't, demanding more... More fuel.
And I expect things from it. This fire flickers behind my eyes... But it isn't mirrored in the eyes I stare into. I've searched for it. I've prayed. I've tried desperately to stoke some sort of... Interest, interest in life, interest in the world, into the people around me. Curiosity. I've tried to ignite fires with emotional lighter fluid and have even used gasoline from time to time.
But it's not enough. My ashes, my coals, my spark... My flames, burning at their hottest, aren't enough to catch.
I wonder if fire ever gets lonely.
I'm curious about those smoking coals... Will there be enough fuel? This spark is hungry, and oxygen isn't enough. Freedom and fuel must be endless to keep it burning. But how many miles of forest can a spark burn through before it moves on?
Because it will burn. And maybe I'll burn with it. That's what fires do, don't they?