There is something strangely calming about fire.
The hissing and whisping flames, sparks flying off into the nightsky, with smoke and warmth, and light.

Some archaic enchantment lays itself over me, while my clothes, hair and every pore of mine, soak up the smoke, take it in, as if it was better than air:

I have made fire!

I made these logs burn, I made light and warmth appear.
True, with the aid of a lighter, not some sticks and a lot of patience. But still, I made fire!
The powerful, ancient weight of that simple act, of repelling the darkness of night and the creeping cold, feels good and frees the spirit to soar, discovering freedoms unbeknownst to those who wouldn’t dare stand at arms length from burning logs, engulfed in sparks as if fire-fairies danced around one.

Tales of greener grass, and bluer skies and cleaner waters and fresher air, spun around more loyal and truer people come to mind – stories as old and certain as the flames before me, certain as if half remembered from actually having witnessed, rather than just heard.

Freed of burdens the mind takes to wander, and to wonder. Hesitantly a blinking, distant campfire reminds of the nightsky. Are there others standing in the hot, radiant stream of fire fairies? Wondering over wandering mind, and ponderous mood over the simple act of igniting a fire?
Sure.
How far, I know not, but there are…

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