Is it dark already? The forest seems very quiet.
Too quiet...
Almost as if the trees dare not disturb the blanket of calm retrospective contemplation of this moment. The last evidence of a season full of color, hopes, of sadness, suspense, some boredom, but mostly surprise, laughs, and much joy lies slowly glowing with the fleeting heat of what had been a bustling blaze.
I wish I could say that this ember was the beginning. Many fires start with an ember just like this one. The start of something bright and hot. Something that reaches high and licks the air with the flick of its dangerous tongue. Oh! to feel that heat at this moment! There are no flames now. No blast of warmth that pushes you away with its rough jocularity, and then pulls you right back. It was like the beating heart of giant beast comprised of plasma. This ember is a neat little package of what was. A portrait of the plasma beast, where the beast herself once stood. But this ember is not the beginning.
Speaking of portraits, they say that a picture is worth a thousand words. The truth is the picture has no worth of its own. It certainly has no words to give you. Even the most fascinating, inspiring, emotionally moving image has no intrinsic power. But then, how are they able to invoke feelings? How do they change minds, influence others? How do they tell you the story that the artist means to tell you? I suppose the magic is not so much magic. It's not a secret, I think images must have arms. I know, this sounds a bit odd, but I think it must be true! Pictures reach into my mind, take my experiences, and things I already knew. They pluck the experiences like piano strings. Ting, Twongwongwong, Buh-Bong. I get an idea of what another person or moment meant to convey. I hear the music, but it's music played on the piano of my mind. The music is still my music. If you were to see this ember, you would hear the music too, but it would not be the same as being here to hear it yourself moments ago when it was real and tangible and loud. I wonder if that makes any sense. This ember, glowing so faintly, can provoke images in your mind of what was here moments ago. But unless you were sitting here with me next to it, you can't really know this particular fire. This blaze. I guess what I am trying to say is that you had to be there..
Maybe you feel that all flames are flames. Every big blaze is like every other big blaze. Maybe you don't understand why I care so much about this fire. I hear you saying "Just make another! This is trivial!"
Maybe..
Maybe..
Maybe you are right. But.. But this one.. This fire. These flames. They were here! They were so warm! They were bright and proud and full of excitement! They were glorious and they flourished. But more than anything else they were mine. I lit the first match. I sheltered the fledgling flames from the wind that sought to devour them. They did the work. They grew. I just made sure they were fed. This was my fire. It warmed me. There will be other fires, but never will there be another one exactly like this.
As the heat and light from that blaze diminished, I will admit that I felt a profound sense of loss. I felt the cold edging back in from where it had been hiding behind the trees from my plasma monster. I know that the fire must go out. This camp has served me well, but it's time to move on. Nothing is forever, which is why things like this mean so much. They are a page in the book of adventures that I carry. There are many other pages, but the importance of this page is not diluted by the existence of other pages in the book. The book isn't the same without this page.
The ember's glow is now almost imperceptible. The ember fades, like a little orange eye closing slowly for a much needed slumber. There is now nothing but ash and the memories in my mind left as proof of anything happening here.
Everything has been packed. It's time to go. I will remember these moments. I will record them into my adventure book. I am satiated. This was a good season. Maybe I will return to this spot. Maybe another fire will play with the air again right here. Maybe.. Yes, I think there will be another flame to warm and entertain. I hope to be sitting nearby when that happens. For now I roll the last little item over in my hand. It is a matchbox. I smile as I put it into my pocket. This is my matchbox. I am embraced by the warmth of knowing that there are still a few matches left inside.
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Thanks for reading. As I wrote this post I listened to music from this channel: jazzijazzful
