She sits alone, and still the flames do not die. They lick at the air behind her, fine feathers of hungry orange-red sprouting from her spine and shoulders like wings. The gentle wind blows them slowly sideways as she sits, watching.
Below her, people move about. She could be amongst them, and feel nothing, or she can sit here, and watch them from afar, and feel. And burn.
It is no choice for her. To feel nothing is a kind of walking death; the flames would cool and die and she would never hurt someone again. But no one deserves to live like that, and so she lives apart, and burns, alone.
She perches here, on a rock that overlooks everything, an impossible pinnacle at once so far away and at the same time just beyond reach. Her feet dangle over the edge, she rests her chin in the palm of her hand and she smiles a bittersweet smile as she looks down, watching.
She watches them live, and she lives, while the flames flicker and softly burn behind her, within her.
(Flaming Metaphors: John Xero's thoughts)
Flash fiction. Fantasy and science fiction. Magic, myth and machines.
So much feeling; and absolutely accurate too, for life without the joy of feeling would be real misery. Flesh might be a painful thing to have at times, but when life feels good, all the bad seems not so horrible.
ReplyDeleteExactly. Feelings are a warmth that sometimes burns, but that is better than always being cold.
ReplyDeleteThank you. =)