Fire

I watch the fire dance through the iron window of the prison that encompasses it. Raw, combustible energy blazing in bright yellows and oranges, it dances provocatively luring us closer. The heat from it's faces scorch the skin of any who foolishly wander too close. It seems harmless, charming even, shifting and radiating a pleasing light. Hypnotically swaying, enthralling those who watch too long; it's long arms playing with brightly lit scarves. The blistering coals sizzle distractingly with pops and wheezes of air trapped in the wood. One poke with a stick sends a rush of glowing sparks hurrying upwards into the stars propelled by the sheer excitement in the opportunity to escape. Make no mistake, escape and freedom are the only focus for fire.

We keep it contained and purposefully useful to cook our food and keep us warm. We use it to help remove waste and inhospitable material. We invite it into our homes and trap it in tiny, ornate holders, or stone fixtures in our walls that we show off to our friends. We use it to protect ourselves, to comfort ourselves, to entertain and romance ourselves. We rely on it's talent for heat to keep us alive. We rely on it's ability to ignite passion in our own lives as we rekindle our own yearning for freedom that fire relentlessly longs for. It speaks to us, the fire in our souls, and we see images of our future, or our past, in the heat of it's flames. We cannot exist without it's glow. Our very lives depend on it's continued complacency.

It's tempered captivity dares you to let it go unnoticed so low in the pit. Tall tongues lick up the bars of the grill, caressing the air, searching to expand into the world. A breeze shifts and bends the flame, teasing it, twisting it, pulling it to where it cannot go. The image is a playful, yet powerful reminder of the fire's confinement. Potential danger builds in the heart of the flame fuelling it's desire to break out of the shackles holding it safely to the Earth. We are fuelled by a fear of irreparable destruction. Fire devours, without prejudice, all consumable material.

For that is the power of fire. The most ancient of instincts; to burn, to consume, to destroy. Without joy, without malice, without knowing it, fire ruins and reduces everything to smouldering ashes. It must be contained, fed regularly, strategically led to dance and grow on command. Reduced to a tool, an object to provide, fire watches us, waiting for our mistakes. The bars on the grill makes us believe that we are safe from harm. But it lies dormant, blanketed in and among the luminous ashes and searing coals, it conserves its heat ready for the opportunity to grow wild. Ignore at your own peril the true nature of fire. It is not to be contained or tamely bound in iron. Do not doubt or underestimate just how easy it is to forget this ancient predator, for you will regret not being respectful.