On every night, drawn closed like curtains, the last light remaining is red and flickering yellow in the hearth. Tucked into cozy blackened brick, the child-like flames dance. Free of it all, while the wood remains. The fire cares not — the dance is the thing once lit.
Light! Light! Light this fire and let it burn so bright! Let this cook, let this singe and toss coughs down your throat and gladly choking on it. Less comfort, more burning.
We are not scared of our short fuse, our popping sap, the horror of watching our legs turn to dust.
Maybe... maybe everything else — the cold, the saw, the stacks of us laying in the shed — maybe all that exists before we are born. A life unlived has never existed in its own true form.
We just have to escape the scary part of lighting the kindling until we're past that point of no return.
Yes, you could get doused and tossed back on the pile. Eventually, you'll dry out.
Patience, sweet wood.
They can not hold you back forever.