A Terrible Fire Burns Inside Me

           A terrible fire burns inside me, such that I once rationalized all of my outrage and discontent as being the by-products of some great cosmic injustice or of a fundamental flaw that’s buried deep within the world itself, but now I can see the actual truth of it; I’m quite simply a natural born trouble maker. I was born to burn and rage and set lots of other things ablaze because that is simply who I am. We will never really be at peace, no matter who or what you may one day become, and for that I sincerely apologize. I had once thought that all of you could somehow be fixed, but now I see that all of this will only ever really end once either you or I have been broken.

           That’s really all I wanted to say tonight; that my general state of dissatisfaction is, ultimately, my own fault and no one else’s. Of course, that’s not to say that there aren’t truly egregious flaws to be found in this world, but I can understand and accept that there are a great number of beautiful things here as well; enough that one could, at least in theory, live so firmly entrenched among all of these wonderful things that he or she would almost never directly encounter, or even have to perceive, the bad.

           Yet what I want to explain is that this is an impossible dream for those like myself; we who were built to crave that which is forbidden, to fall in with bad men, to stay up far too late, to test our grace with drink and hard drug, and to never afford ourselves the plebeian luxuries of faith, trust, or optimism, and all other such petty panglossian assurances which are so readily relied upon by those whose insides don’t seem to smolder as ours do. We will be dangerous, increasingly more so in fact, until the day we die, and, even after that, I, at the very least, sincerely hope to remain so, here, or in any hell or heaven that will have me.

           Seen through my burning eyes, this world absolutely needs the contention we offer, and that’s why we must refuse to be calm, cool or collected; we must refuse to be complete; and we must most certainly refuse to be content. Contentment is the cowardly aspiration of the self-satisfied and the self-absorbed, those who fail to appreciate the fact that their discontent flows directly from the stillborn divinities that have been left to die inside us all; titanic forces that, despite these slow and painful suffocations, and the lack of any conceivable midwife, are somehow still gnawing and clawing at so many human hearts today.

           It’s not something that’s active in all of us of course, or even most. As a matter of fact, these days I don’t think many of the Old Ones survive the sterile pedagogies of most people’s childhoods. However, those who still know and who still experience the enormous hunger of which I speak can tell that something inside them is desperately fighting for its continued survival. I wrote this just to let mine breathe a little bit.

           The real question you all should be asking is, “What’s going to happen (or already has happened) to my own black flame?” I sincerely hope, if it's not too late, that you can also find some small way to let your own fires breathe. Namaste.

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