I don’t want to be a fire, anymore. I don’t want to glow quick and bright and angry. I don’t want to be extinguished by others, I don’t want to be feared for the burn, I don’t want to be stopped, I don’t want to burn out, I don’t want to end. I don’t want to be a fire because when I wanted to be a fire, I wanted to be too powerful to hold and contain. I wanted to be untouchable, and I believed that I was.
But, oh, light. To be a light is useful and brilliant. To be a light is to be a constant and a path. To be a light is to last, and last, and surround people with your warmth and necessity. To be a light means lasting through the nights with nobody tending to you, constant, alert, like stars or the light you turn on so you don’t hit your shin. To be a light means to be bright, but not untouchable. To be a light means to be powerful, but a power you can harness. To be a light means you are not an unexpected burn. You are not sparks that turn into embers that turn into dust. You are not an element. You are here, and you will be here, and you will light the way for yourself and others, untouched no longer. Oh, to be a light.