I just published a prose poem on the fire element. Please read.
Fire introduced himself as the fuel for survival and a slow killer. I thought thinking of his slow burns made my teeth chatter not realizing the cold surrounding was the chill of fear. I admired his trickster ways and wanted to learn from him, while I hid in the cold without knowing why.
When we met, I learned he and I were bipolar. The closer you get, the more you realize our true power. That scares people. Hell, it scared me. I was so afraid, I feared everything I touched when he proudly burned inside me, the purification singeing away the conditioning that convinced me he wasn’t safe. I wasn’t sure if this conditioning was my fault or if my psyche was programmed to never know the word “bravery”, but only saw its definition when he burned brightly in other souls and I obeyed my conditioning to see him as a sin I should never touch.
Earth is home. Home is where reality takes shape, where we start planting our roots. We start out as saplings looking up to the full-grown trees who are familiar with Earth and her nurturing ways. They seem proud of how far they’ve come. They seem invincible, so we believe them when they tell us that we will grow higher than they have, that we’re destined to be even closer to the sun.
Then we learn about how stressful growth is. Our sapling form starts protruding from the soil; our roots are deeper, but also farther away. We go through these strange phases, learning what to do with our new branches, leaves, petals, fruit, whatever you may see yourself blossoming. It’s a strange time, and it gets stranger when you see the other saplings growing differently. It leaves you curious, maybe terrified, but you’ll inevitably compare and contrast and wonder about reality’s most common questions: What is the right way to grow? What is the wrong way to grow?