"It is like fire you know." I raised my eyebrow and shifted uncomfortably on my seat. I knew where this was headed but I pretended not to know, "What is?".
"...Love..."
"Oh. Is it?" I frowned. I'm not doing a very good job at the pretending not to know part. I might be doing this wrong, or I could just be playing along.
Of course, it is. Love is like fire. Let me go all scientifically metaphorical about this. As fire goes it needs three things: fuel, oxygen and heat. One cannot create fire without the others. All three must be present, all three must exist at the same time. Nothing more, nothing less. One can put as many fuel as there might be but it would all be much useless without the air for it to breathe in much less the heat for it to begin with.
All of it could begin with anything. Striking a match, rubbing two pieces of wood, hitting rocks together...anything. A handshake, an eye stare, a smile...anything. A spark, that's how we'd call it. From there it opens a whole new different set of stories. Perhaps something we've never encountered before or perhaps we did but with a variation that suits our taste. I think I've developed a sense of uncertainty with it. Still, I cannot completely deny that I am into it. The unpredictability and uncontrollability gives this thrill; There is a catch, there always is.
"Let's just say 'fire' was never inclined to be kind to me."
Too often have I found myself in a situation wherein I am the one who's trying to fan the last of the flames whereas the other person stomps only wanting to extinguish what little is left. Eventually, I'd give up; not because I'm a quitter, but because I know the fight is over. From then I would start over and then onwards it would be back to square one.
I'm sick of the winged child with a bow making me his target practice. I hate how much time I have spent pulling out arrows that struck: deep, sad and painful. In pulling each out, I found myself consumed by the same fire I longed for yet somehow, recalling that I have gained with the pain, I am thankful. Thankful for the fact that I still have the strength to and to brace myself for the next. As the healing takes place, I only realize that it was only myself who put myself in that situation. I plunged into the flame knowing what I want, I left myself in an insubstantial state.
The fire that burned in the fireplace is now nothing but flickering flames. Shortly after, I was just staring at embers and to dark cold coals. A chill starts to seep through my skin. At first, I am afraid. Slowly and surely, it creeps and crawls making sure that it's presence has not gone unnoticed. I would think that the flames last long and longer than it should. It did not however, disdaining all the firewood I fed it with.
Even though there is a lack of warmth, I find myself at ease. I am calm, I am in control. Not emotions, not fleeting feelings. I realize this now - there is comfort in the cold. Let the flames die down and let me not worry. For in the cold, with the peace and isolation and serenity it brings, I am happy.
