When I’m on fire, I am able to meet the blue in the sky with the flame in my eyes. I can run every hamster of an idea through the wheels in my head and they will go somewhere, damn it. Or else. Bulbs planted from long ago bulbs bloom with each fallen ash, and I am free again. Free to fantasize of all the red I have yet to live, of all the chaos to explore, and the devils still to chase away from the corners of the world. My world, the one that smolders and smokes still from a destruction caused not by lightning but by kindling, and there will be a day where I will roast marshmallows over the coals left behind the day they dropped the match.
The days I am on fire are the days tulips bloom the brightest.