Lighting the Fire of Passion Once More


Our fire once burned bright; orange flames dancing high into the sky.

      We were excited to share our light with the world.

     One was cautioned not to stand so close, as it only seemed to spread and grow warmer.

     We danced in glee around the flames, toasted marshmallows over our creation and shared stories in its warm ambience.

     We tended to the fire. We fed it with logs, branches and old newspaper clippings.

     Tending to the flames came with such ease, that one day we forgot to keep feeding it.

      We made no time for wood cutting; hands empty rather than tossing new logs into the pit.

     The flames grew weak but the change was gradual.

     With such a gradual change, we didn't notice the dying light until goosebumps rose on our suddenly chilly skin.

     Desperation finally hit.

     We knew that there was little time to save the flames we loved dearly.

     We ran to find the right supplies and fought when we couldn't find the axe.

     I was so certain that you were the last to hold it, and you I.

     In the chaos of arguments and distressed running, neither one of us spotted the storm rushing in.

     And just like that...

     One simple gush of wind; one simple crying cloud above our heads and the lights went out.

     Cold and dark.

     All signs of our previous fiery passion vanished; almost like it never existed.

     All hope was lost.

      We blamed each other for the burning out and cried as our vision only seemed to grow darker.

     We shivered under the night sky and wondered how we ever came to take the warmth for granted.

      It seemed that the only thing left to do was part ways.

     To part ways and try to ignite with someone new.

      But as we said our last goodbyes over the pit that used to burn so bright, there was something in your eyes.

     There was something in my eyes.

     Memories.

     Feelings that were forgotten in the haste of resentment.

     And just as fast as it burnt out, the coals before us grew red.

     They flickered under the soft gust of wind; faint smoke rising as they grew warm again.

     With a shared look we blew softly on the coals, further reviving their color.

     One branch held by intertwined hands ignited.

     It was slow at first.

     But one branch turned into multiple, and soon we were fetching logs once more to feed the flames that had been reborn.


Sometimes you think that a fire has burn out, until a single still half warm piece of ash ignites once more with the soft breath of wind.

      Passion burns bright, but sometimes the largest flames require the most feeding.

      While the warmth in our chests should come naturally, no fire lives forever without maintenance.

     Half warm ashes may be harder to feed than dancing flames, but they are not hopeless.

     All it takes is one spark to ignite once more.

      You simply need to decide if this fire pit is worth your everlasting flicker of light.

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