Forget not who you are, my darling.1
Burn fierce, burn bright. Above all, burn as you are and as you will to be.
What colour is a person’s fire, you ask? It depends.
This particular consuming conflagration I think is like molten snow. Liquid heat infused into ice. A delicious contradiction that burns bright despite all reason and rule.
Burnt into the flame of hope, that piercing roaring whiteness, dancing gleeful at its core is another flame. This flame is red.
Not the cherry red of strength, though this scintillating plasma burns with fierce strength.
Not the blood red of life, though this flame is powerfully enlivened with desire to live.
The particular red that spins and burns within this flame of hope is that of endless passion, a full and encompassing crimson.
As you watch this incendiary union, the two contrasting flames – red against white, white against red like a bloodied game of chess, dueling like lovers hearts – fuse and amalgamate.
Duly, a new colour is formed from eating up both flames. Octarine. The eighth colour of the rainbow. The colour of magic.2 Indescribable. Fluorescent. Fierce.
In its sublime new colour, the flame grows. And grows. A spark begets an inferno, sooner or later. This flicker is magical, to boot.
You walk into the flame, though you strangely do not fear being burned.
What happens when you walk into the fire, unafraid?