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.
The first step is the hardest. Could it be because there’s no more land beneath your feet after that first step? The dog is barking with urgency, while your heart is beating with passion, and your foot hovers over a ledge taunting gravity and fate. Calling you The Fool isn’t an insult to your bravery nor an applause. You are pure adrenaline, you are the heart falling into the stomach, the stomach jumping into the throat. You might be naive or tired of everyone calling you what you’re not. You’re just The Fool facing this new beginning that may have been by Chance, but that’s no reason to pass it up.
I’ve genuinely been pursuing calmness in this life because I finally detected the chaotic pattern of my many histories. To keep myself busy in the lives of others and let them rule my ambitions, to hold to anger and revenge as a permanent resolve to my misery; these are the patterns of my self-perpetuating pain from refusing to face the emptiness inside me. That emptiness is a different chaos that simply is; a gateway to my deepest inner truth. I am empty like a room that was robbed, a blank slate. Tried to paint the walls with bloodlust, but the rage doesn’t stick. Revenge just wears the walls down. Letting other people come in and paint the room only upset me and I tolerated it because I kept blaming myself for being robbed. Everyone left when I remembered my power, my worth, and my ability to forgive. I have no more rage to paint with. I am still, like the room, empty, blank. I simply am.
It’s time to relish in the calm and keep things simple. I’ll fill the room with who I am. I’m going to embrace this vulnerability and paint with my true colors. I’m not worried about who comes to stay or leaves. In this calmness, this different chaos that cultivated my freedom and autonomy, I’m going to pursue an environment where I belong; a home. The love of home can never be robbed from me because it becomes me, simply.