“I watch as the flame moves to and fro, almost in slow-motion as I stand in awe of how perfect it doesn’t know it is. Off in the distance, there’s a patter of footsteps accompanied by laughter. Bubbles are blown into the humid air as the moisture attaches itself to the fragile and malleable spheres that float directionless. As directionless as the joy the children feel until it drifts away in an evening dream, only to come back like the morning sunrise. I watch them through my window, across the smells of smoke as it shrouds my vision but not my perception; and I find myself holding my breath as the world turns slower than my thoughts, absorbing memories like nutrition until the last person leaves. How perfect it is. If the flame could speak, I wonder if it would feel the same way about me as I do it.”
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