My mother told me not to play with Fire. She showed me the burns on her arms, the scars on her knees.
“Don’t play with Fire; your skin will burn, your beauty will fade, the pain will be great.”
I listened cautiously for years, always making sure I never came too close to the flame that never fades from existence. I glanced upon its hypnotic colors, the warmth it provided, the energy it proposed. Indeed it was tempting, yet I didn’t dare touch it.
One day The Fire burned so bright, and the flames grew tall; I was sequestered by its heat, robbed of my rational senses. Oh how enticing! The orange and blue, yellow streaks across its hair. The Fire had captured me, wrapped me in its arms, whispered my name.
It coiled its fiery arms around my body, scorching my skin, burning my senses off their receptors. I yelled at the top of my lungs, but no sound emanated, no one heard.
It felt as though hours were days, as the Fire kept gnawing at my flesh. He almost ate right through my soul, until at last he grew tired of holding me in its grip. The Fire let go, let me fall on the ground, scathed and burned, almost numb of the pain.
The scars remain, the smell of smoke still present in my nostrils. Sometimes the thought of it stops my breathing and I find myself gasping for air like a fish out of water.
Ah, but the lesson was learned, the curiosity satisfied, the pain deterred my every longing to belong to the Fire. Playing with Fire was a beautiful mistake. A beautiful mistake indeed.