Think of a sickly, wounded bird. Faded grey.
Then think of a fire licking up around it. A funeral pyre and also a celebration of (re)birth.
A phoenix must die to rise. To be renewed. Consumed in flame that does not hurt but heals. I like the way it burns.
Partly because of the great sieve I have in place of a brain I am immortal. I am a phoenix, motherfucker.
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.
You are magic, don’t ever apologise for the fire in you
Joonyeop Baek Like the aeons ancient celestial-battle scarred crust of this very Earth
You are strong, like the barked fortress of a enduring old-oak
And yet…
Photo by Derek Mack on Unsplash Like the lightest breeze playing across a dew-kissed meadow
You are gentle, like the drifting of a ruby sunset below the flung horizon
And yet…
Photo by Steve Halama on Unsplash Like the lashing touch of a storm battering all within its flailing grasp
A spark
a million volts
for a split second
If the spark lands just right
it kindles a tiny flame
Hot but flickering
Should you gentle cradle this flame
unafraid of being burned
It will resist when it would be doused
If you feed this flame
it will grow explosively into a fire
A conflagration that consumes and ignites
Should you survive the fire as it dies
you will be left with smouldering embers
Most roses are tamed, claiming only a veneer of beauty. But some are wild and free. And all the more beautiful for it.
Wild roses wear crowns of thorns. They are beautiful and dangerous.
Wild roses are hardy, enduring plants. They are strong and tenacious.
Wild roses are the brightflowers among sprawling tangles of thorns. They shine bright against the Dark.
Soft petals, strong thorns. Soft heart, strong will. You are my wild rose.
The Edge is that which lights. That which sets the blood pumping. That which sparks the soul.
The Edge is the edge between life and death.
Chasing the Edge leads to the Rush.
The Rush is the fire lit from the Edge. The thump of heart pumping at the Edge. The blaze of soul sparked at the Edge.
The Rush is adrenaline, nothing more — nothing less.
It is also the only way I know how to Live.
She flew.
Though not on wings.
Crouched astride a gleaming machine, she flew with gasoline.
Flew between lumbering bubbles of steel. Just so many birdcages. And one hawk soaring among them.
They meandered to destinations unknown. While she flew, destination undetermined. Destination unimportant.
Photo by KEVIN CLYDE BERBANO on Unsplash She flew, and she screamed.
She howled into the night. A fierce sound of primal anguish. Impaled with emotion. A beast of passion and turmoil, barely contained.