The sun came to us yet again, as we knew it would.
The dark and cold surrendered so slowly, slowly, to light
and warmth, even before that brilliant disc showed itself in the welcoming sky.
Dim became bright, colors grew vivid, sounds were heard,
first few and muted, then many and loud, and the stillness quickened.
What hadn’t yet been came to be, and grew and flowered. There was meeting and
parting and purpose to fulfill, places to go and things to see and do and love.
The sun rose to the peak of its destined arc, and with it’s
decline, so declined all that it brought. Yet the evening was expected and
welcomed for the rest it promised.
In the dark cold night, I lit a fire, for I missed the light
and warmth and the hopeful, busy activity. I wanted to keep hold of it through the night.
As fires do, it began
small and promising, then grew and flourished into an intense chaos
of sound and activity, power and satisfaction. It was it’s own purpose, grand
and glorious.
I was captured by it. It fascinated me. It filled me. I let
myself become it. I let it become me.
But like the sun, my fire had its zenith. I had nothing left
to feed it and the inexorable decline began. Unlike the reliable sun,
this decline promised no rest, no recovery. The fate of a fire is extinction, a final end to
all its light and warmth and hope and purpose. All gone, to never return.
I watched in complete despair, feeling great loss with each dying ember, each disappearing flicker of light, until darkness and
cold took their ultimate victory. I then
knew that tomorrow’s sun was for others, and not for me.