The fire, so destructive and yet, it can clear a path that was never there before – one unimagined even in the greatest of minds.
There is a small flame, just recently lit, that resides in a tiny chamber within my heart. It is working tirelessly to clear a path between my heart and my soul but is starved and dying. I am protecting it, fearful that the air it needs to breathe might extinguish it forever.
I am protected by layers of ashy skin so that no one can see who I am. It is thick and never stirred by even the strongest of winds and I wonder each day as I view the unfamiliar image in the mirror:
When will I have the courage to wipe myself clean?
How many layers will I have to remove to get to the raw, pink flesh?
When will I let it breathe so I can finally heal?
I feel infinitesimal in a world so incomprehensibly large – a spec in the vast expanse of the universe. My voice is barely perceptible among the screams of others’ pain. I cannot find the solid ground with which to shed this ashy skin. The lines on my paper are disappearing, the ink bleeding out until it is empty, and still I cannot find the courage to let the fire burn. I am afraid of the heat, afraid of what I might find, afraid of what others might see underneath that which has melted.