Late in the night I dream of wildfire, or perhaps it dreams of me.
It begins as most dreams do in a large expanse of space and although there can be no time the place is either nondescript or more vivid than my eyes can take. Usually I float on the breeze, an essence of tranquility and I breathe only for the bliss of it, no longer is it necessity. I close my eyes and revel in the placid air but when again I open them I find the space below is in actuality, a place. Sometimes it is beauty beneath and at times it is putrid waste. Each moment I gaze it saddens me, makes me wish it was gone. From my eyes, each a single tear, one white and one red, shed. They are like rain but one is thunder and the other light and down, down below on the surface of that vast continuum of space and together they are flames, screaming, without mercy or rage. My heart lifts, no. No longer am I tranquility, I have heart, I feel a gentle tug, a smile, no, I am no longer a breeze. I am solid, I have breadth, width, no, I cannot. I need space. Those darting fingers of heat, they are death, final and resolute, and I am mortal, falling, falling, into their grip. Throwing forth my hands, my palms they painfully lick. With every inch closer deeper and deeper the red hot blades flick, now they cut me, I am close oh, too, too close I will be flames then ash. I can see Death’s all too absent eyes. I cry out and . . .
I wake.