Fire

    They sat around the fire. The moon was the backdrop. Clouds obscured the stars, but not the circle of white which sat unmoving against the black of night. Just the moon. Its essence only accented by the fire. In the event the fire went out, they would see solely by the light of the moon. 

     Around the fire a circle of instant chairs had sprouted. Red, green, blue, black and metal. The things perceiving the fire sat in those chairs, they the only confirmation that the fire indeed existed. If only one of them could see the fire the rest would say he was mad. But to their relief they could all see it. They could see its presence on their faces. They felt its personality as it chimed in with a steady orchestra of pops and cracks and snaps. It drew on their souls, each of them feeling as if it was a part of their fellowship.

     No one had consciously thought of the fire as a friend, but they all felt it deep in their minds, how their relationship with it had evolved. How from the first moment they saw flames, the very first moments of perceiving something completely new and the fear they felt. To now, comforted by it as if by an old friend. But it never was completely new. On the same plane of consciousness where they felt but did not think existed the experiences of their ancestors. Their DNA. And how the thing that they sat in the presence of was the equal to the sun and its heat. How its importance was only diminished to a hobby because of the evolution of technology and its comforts. But in the event that technology collapsed they would once more be dependent on fire. And the moon.

     The things that are inexpressible but nevertheless on the edge of our intuition. Picture these self-aware beings, as if you were looking down on their gathering. A perfect circle of them, peering all in one direction. Within that circle, on the point of their gaze, a blazing fire. Outside of that circle, surrounded by tall trees. All in unison, the beings, the fire, the trees, the unseen critters. They are all breathing the unseen air, taking as well as giving. A symphony so complex, so wonderfully mysterious, full of parallels. What is being expressed? A song. A painting. Surely a work of art. 

     For every light of man, the lights of God become harder to perceive. In the forest, around this fire, the lights of man are few. The lights of God are spectacular, beyond counting. The clouds dispersed. The sparks off the fire rose in a swirling cone towards the heavens to become one with the lights. 60 years into the future and one of our being’s remains are cast into the wind, seen shimmering in the sun’s glow, to become one with the bluest sky. 

     In the present the fire had diminished. Those beings went about their regular ritual before shutting the lights off. Once completed the things sought shelter in their tents. and they dreamt. Some of these dreams were fragmented. Others were clearer. Not one was completely lucid.

      Of course she was flying. Soaring above the forest. She was a bird after all. So light she was, her wings were hardly there but she could feel the heroin in her veins. She could hear it too, a continuous swoosh. Gliding in between the stars. In pure ecstasy she was. Then, snapping her out of her bliss, a squeak. In the blink of an eye she had descended hundreds of feet. A wicked screech escaped from her beak, letting her prey know what was coming. The viciousness of her attack was for but an instant. She ascended once again, tasting blood, crunching bone. Her wings so very light.

     While she was flying he was drowning. He lay his head down beside hers, comforted by the scent of her hair. Getting up off the forest floor, he looked up and around. Only stars overhead, the moon in her glow. Trees on all sides, needles and leaves, tall and menacing. The moonlight illuminated his white nakedness and naivety. Fear came for him. He could hear it approaching, snapping twigs and rustling leaves, sending mice scurrying. He followed the mice, crunching leaves under his bare feet. Eventually he overtook them, and could feel their guts squish up between his toes. Somewhere far off a bird had screeched in triumph, then he tripped. Stumbling he went, with a splash and a brutal cold, into a black body of water. He fought to resurface to no avail, he had no sense which way was up. He breathed in and sputtered out, the burning water filling his lungs. His eyes bulged out of their sockets. He never felt such terror.

     In these dreams our things dwelt. Not out of choice, or will. As ancestral as a forest are dreams, just as vast and interconnected. Cleansing as fire, revealing as star light. Mysterious and terrifying as darkness are dreams. The fire went to bed with their consciousness, the moon woke with their dreams. The dutiful symbols are always good companions. The trees gave their lullaby, sighing and swinging with the wind. The wind, the air, it gave relief and expansion. Imagination brought this gathering about. Love gave way to companionship. Innovation gave them peace. 

     And so the sun rose. Black and white gave way to blue and yellow. The morning songs of the birds joined in with the chorus of dreams. In sequence, one after another they woke. A nice transition from sleep to wake. None of them had quite gone mad. No one had died. Except for in their dreams. Cool air they inhaled, bolstering their souls. Warm coffee they drank, electrifying their blood. The lights were all on once again. Though the moon and the fire had kept them through the night, the sun’s magnificence was like no other. And they were all comforted.