The Language of Flames
It breathes air just as we do, yet neither of us wants to share. Fire gives no life, though it longs to live. Its flickering amber tongues lick and taste, testing the worthiness of its prey. It stretches out its pointed fingers, searching. When it finds what it seeks, it hesitates—briefly—before tightening its grasp and refusing to let go.
Fire preys on the weak. It consumes the brittle, the dry, the spent. Like a thief, it steals their strength, devouring even the tall and the proud. Once its victims are drained, it moves on, seeking another host. Upon victory, it raises its colors—blue and gray—twirling and waving, a signal of its arrival. To some, its banner is a warning; to others, a welcome.
Imagine seeing fire for the first time—through the wide eyes of a child or the awe of the first man to watch it burn. You would think it magic. What could be stranger, more otherworldly—the sleight of a magician, the illusions of a sorcerer, or the raw wonder of fire? Yet we treat it as ordinary, though it is anything but.
Fire lives. It groans and moans like a restless ghost, snaps and pops like your father’s tendons, and hisses, whines, and roars like a wild creature. When unwanted, it spreads like disease. When desired, it behaves like a stubborn child—needy, requiring our care, our tending, the right ingredients, the right conditions. Some will say it is nothing more than a chemical reaction, a simple union of elements under precise circumstances. But who commanded it to form when air met spark?
It warms us, cleanses and refines. It lights our path in the darkness. It seals a pact—or an open wound.
Where did it come from? Was it born in the earliest days, before the great flood that washed away its ancestors? Did we resurrect it from death? We build it, wield it, yet it is not ours. Unlike the creations of our hands, it does not belong to us—it has merely been loaned. Perhaps it was gifted to mankind by the demigods of old—the same who taught us the healing powers of herbs, the craft of raising monuments in their honor, the shaping of language, and the art of war.
A breeze transforms its orange embers to black, then white, then into a shade of marmalade beyond description. Its flames shift to blue, to yellow, to a clear shimmer like liquid glass—sometimes invisible, yet still burning with heat.
Its glow draws our thoughts and stirs our emotions. We sit before it, mesmerized, believing—if we stare long enough—it will reveal the answers to life’s deep questions. Or perhaps, we simply lose ourselves in the stillness, thinking of nothing at all. Only a blue sky with drifting clouds can hold us so long and still nourish the soul.
Fire speaks. It reveals signs from the heavens. God Himself has spoken through its flames. It descends from the sky, yet it can also rise from the depths of hell. It can save or condemn. Heal or harm. So, is it good—or is it evil?
What is fire—a gift, or a curse?
