Fire

A fire rages, burning and consuming, unchecked, unchallenged as it devours every particle and invades every nuance of life. It wages its war in the confines of the shadows, twisting, pulling, plucking the strings of the marionette, forcing its will until the doll submits, dictating the steps to the domineering dance. The strings are invisible. We do not care to see them or feel them, yet we move our feet to the rhythm of a song we cannot hear, believing it to be our own will. Imitated, falsified, and deceived into following a course we do not know, and we are not the author.

How then can we know of its existence?

The fire becomes deadlier with each moment that passes because it remains unseen. The fatal foe is the one unknown. Do not mistake the heat for the summer day; the sun is the cloak under which the fire burns.

Watch closely, and see the holes burned into our lives appear. In our families, our countries, our societies. Not seen directly perhaps, but the effects are ever present. It results in the very behavior of the child as they do in secret that which should not be done. In the politicians’ disguised activities they desire their constituents will never learn or the way in which the degradation of moral character declines, day after day, until children are closer to their technology than they are to their parents. Where imagination is overtaken and ruled by a unified will where deviation from the societal norm dictated by higher power is looked down upon as abhorrent. The fabric of our world is being torn asunder by a slow burn that had been kindled, sparked, and set alight centuries ago. Beyond our records, beyond the words. Only, our desensitized eyes and minds cannot use the very analytical skills we so proudly boast of in our race in order to define this change. All we can see are the words. We are words, words, words. A façade structure without definition due to the emergent relativity of every detail in society. Black standardized text on legal pads and white paper.

Fire escalates to an inferno. Raging faster, hotter, until night and day blur, and there is no time to fight or escape, even if we could see it. We play half riddles in the dark, in the shadows cast by the very flame we cannot see until the skin is burnt from our bones and nothing is left but charred remains, half baked dreams, and the putrid odor of scarred earth and melted flesh. We are the ruins of Shelley’s "Ozymandias," “look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair,” while we remain ignorant of our world falling about our ears. We claim it for our legacy, our steps toward a unified and tolerant society, but what will remain? We paint the picture without staying in the lines and the colors blur and mix until there is nothing to celebrate but sameness. The canvas changes from white to black, or rather, grey. There is no black and white anymore. And even as we stare at the artwork, trying to decipher the message hidden within its taints, we still do not see that it will all burn in the end.

Heed warning.

 As the shadows grow longer, our time closes. And we, being too scared to describe what we see, afraid of the truth which is the only thing that will remain after the scourge, shrink away as the time ticks to a close. The last grain of sand in the hour glass will sink into the bottom and the glass will shatter, and we will be impaled with the shards of the consequences we had ignored for the benefit of our immediate pleasure. We will drown in the fire that we have disregarded and chosen not to pay heed. Then, we shall not only see the angry red orange, but feel it as it burns the water and air out of our bodies.

We will return to ash.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

The judgment is coming.