As I watch the television, I’m wishing I could sprout a fire. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not speaking in metaphor. A flame is what I desire, surrounded by rock and burning dry, fallen wood. I can smell the smoke. Together with the fresh air, it fills my lungs. The television is disappearing now. The florescent lights dim. The characters portrayed are melting. It’s just a fire, it seems–in the middle of my living room.
Then, the walls begin to dissipate. In fact, the roof goes first. It’s not destructive, but rather a peaceful fading. The paint goes from white to black, yes, but it’s quicker than that. It’s almost as if a fog is clearing. The ceiling clears away as a haze in the sun, giving way to a night sky and stars above. Smoke curls up from the fire to meet the starry gaze.
Now it’s the walls. Yes, they’re descending, shrinking, lowering even. I know the bushes and homes and grasses that are outside, but none of them appear. No, there are trees and forest and dirt. It’s moving quickly. My possessions are nothing. It’s me, the carpet, the fire and the forest.
Moss grows toward my feet. Through the carpet comes splotches of green and brown, tinted with the shadows that dance across the atmosphere from the flickering flame. I’m consumed by the wilderness–entrenched. A song, a tune plays in my ear like a whistle and a hum, giving way to the crackle of the fire. I breathe in the scents that surround me: the evergreens, the burning and the dirt, and am lifted to the stars upon the plume of smoke that rises before me.