Deciphering fire

“And I made my own way, deciphering fire.”- Pablo Neruda

The first thing that you will notice would be
the absence of the strange coldness that you have been
familiar with since you were five and everyone else knew all the
dance steps to a certain country song except for you. During the
right time, the sudden warmth will lick your shoulders,
your tired hands, your mourning eyes, pulling out its
yardstick to take your measurements. It will need to know
how it would best fit you and during what occasions it would be most appropriate
to display so that you don’t go and nurture the notion that you are anyone
other than yourself. It decides how you will grow and by how many
inches each season. But it knows better than to make you hurry,
to make you want more from it than what is required.
Some say, yellow flowers are composed of this;
water when you are especially thirsty.
It holds the timidity of first love and the grains of sweat
coursing down the backs of rice farmers.
It is the sound you hear when the wind howls and the
echoing loneliness in seashells. But mostly, it is fire, burning down
your mindless rage, renewing the true magnificence
of your own beliefs. But when it becomes too hot and mistakenly stifles you,
it eases its grip slowly but doesn’t dare let you go. It will keep its finger lightly
on one of your shoulders, or will maintain its hold on a particular hair strand.
You are, at times, jealous because you know it doesn’t belong only to you but in these circumstances, insecurity would be as inappropriate as
tulips in May. Only those who do not know,
who do not have the certainty that they are knowledgeable,
are aware that the journey may last long, may lead them astray,
may be perilous, but it will always be as unique
as an unpremeditated gift, as precious as love before dying.
For whatever reason it may have, you are lucky enough that it chose you.
It can never be the other way around.

So be silent and let it lead you. Let it take you home.