The world is on fire. The flames are invisible but only burn all the hotter for it. Since the beginning, we’ve crawled out of the ooze from which we’re born, sopping wet and mercifully coated with a protective layer of the liquid still clinging to us. The coats vary in thickness, some more uneven than others. The flames lick at us but all they taste is the ooze for a while. The ooze doesn’t last. With each fiery kiss, some of it evaporates away, becoming a cloud that will one day rain over the pool of our origin and give a new life its chance.
Eventually the flames burn through. It’s a subtle change because the layers melt away one at a time and it gets hotter inside each time. Yet when it happens, we know without knowing that it is over. Our time is not immediately over but we feel the burn, numbing our senses, and nothing can be the way it was before. Our chances to live, love, learn, and explore have slipped away through our fingers like the waters of a lazy creek. The End comes when it will, as a thief in the night. We know only that it is impending by the bitter taste of our every breath. Smiles fade quicker and don’t mean as much as they did before. One day we all look past the rain and the life it brings and see only the mud upon which it all rests. Hollow laughter echoes through the empty hallways of our dwelling places and we dissolve with the sound. The blurry, dull edge to the world becomes little more than dead wait, preparing the burdened for their rest.
The thickness of each coat is apportioned by luck alone to each individual. A heavy, even coat is granted to some, gifting them with long life and good health. Some are given a heavy coat, thinner in some places than in others. This results in a long life, though the exposed areas bring problems that will eat away at the physical body long before its time to go. There are an unfortunate few given a sparse coat if any at all. These are the poets, prophets, and mad men of the world. From the first breath, they feel the fire eating away at them. They know that The End is just as much a part of our life as the first breath that announced The Beginning.
A sparse coat indeed. I've often thought of poets, artists, creative beings of all types as exposed nerves. It hurts, but the reception is so powerfully pure. What will I do before I burn to ask? I'm still taking that one day at a time, trying to live in the moment, enjoy the blessings. My death exhale may come with my next breath! Should I get another, I wish to live more true to myself.
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I like this analogy, but I wonder if there are things we can do to prolong our personal coat's life? Would loving, learning and exploring not act as an anesthetic? Are there coats for our psyche that we come upon as we mature? The fire will eventually exhaust us, but Aloe Vera does grow; we just have to know where to find it.
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