One moment, you're struggling. The next, you're grip is slipping and you're falling off the edge. It's too dark to see below and you don't know what's going to happen. You aren't going to cry because you want to look strong and you can't scream because the wind stole your breath. Now you're hanging by a thread and there's a storm brewing, dark clouds are covering your thoughts and thick waves are crashing through your mind. It's raining in sheets above your head and you can't see anything but cloud tears. The thunder is so loud inside your ears, you're shaking and the lightning is blinding and striking your soul. You're catching on fire, so strong and wild, the rain can't put it out and you're burning and sizzling and need to tear off your skin so the sun can dry it out if it ever comes back. And now you're waking up with feet twisted in your sheets and tangled hair and you can never face the rain again. Nightmares are my childhood. I've learned to love the rain when I used to hate it. I used to hate the storms and the violence and now it's my life.

Can anyone tell me why life sucks so much sometimes? I feel like sitting in the sun until I have bubbling blisters and pouring salt on my wounds might actually make me feel better. My life's one of those sad stories that people read, pretend to cry and have a hard time remembering the details.

I don't even remember all the details. I remember the distorted parts and pieces. My childhood used to be full of innocence, but this is a cruel world and innocence is destroyed more easily than created.

I remember my love of fire. I still have it to this day. I don't play with it the way I used to though. It used to be more exciting, but lately I find myself with better things to do then stare into the flame. I used to love campfires. I would throw anything and everything I could find into the fire. I watched the different ways things melted and burned, sometimes changing the colors of the flame or send it dancing ferociously. I watched the flames lick the air, wishing I could move and dance in such a way. I listened to the popping and sizzling. I breathed in the dirty air. I loved the smell of burning. It was relaxing and pleasant. It was like home.


Sometimes I would go outside with matches and lighters and burn paper into ashes or get as close to the fire as I could before the heat started to burn. I loved putting my fingers in hot, melted wax. I would let it dry on my hands, encasing my fingers and pretend I was a monster. I mean it was perfectly ordinary. I liked to test my limits and drag my fingers through the flame. I never got burned. I had a special bond with fire. I am not like a normal pyro. I don't want to hurt people or myself. I don't want to cause problems. It's like my personal form of meditation, pure, quiet, peacefulness. It was probably the beginning of this obsession that I learned to like being alone. It was here, where my character truly developed. This is the time of my life when people stopped understanding me.


Is it safe to play with fire? Is it okay to want to be wrong? Fire's like a special energy that lights me up and I want to be crazy and scare everyone. I love the dancing fear behind innocent eyes. I love the stares from broken eyes pretending they're better than perfect. Pretending they don't cry in the dark or see the shadows moving and the ghosts hiding in the corners. They pretend I'm insane, to cover up their own obsessions. I want to escape to a broken land where everyone is alone and they don't need to pretend. Is it okay to want this? Is it okay to want to stand out, to want to be...me? Why should I pretend to be something I'm not? I don't want to be a liar. I don't need to be a liar. My soul doesn't want to be black. My eyes want to sleep soundly at night. My mind wants to dream. I don't need to be evil. Not your kind anyway. You aren't something to be proud of, you are fake. Look at me. Touch me. I am real. I am light. I am fire.


I can watch the vicious flames crawl through the air and lick the clouds and comprehend that the sparks are producing murderous screams and not care enough to turn my head or even lift a finger.