We took words from the fire. Wrestled them free, breathing deep of smoke and cinder. Burned, we took them, and made them tools. Put them back in the flames, beat them with hammers, bent them with tongs, turned them from simple names to complex, powerful instruments that cut, that heal, that separate us and bind us.
The fire is still in the words, hiding, biding, waiting for the moment when the universe unfolds just so to remind us of their power.
Burning is pain, and release, and cleansing. Purification of the earliest kind, our oldest trial. We have refined all of this, into simple combinations of symbol and sound, roll them off our tongues and tumble us together. Currents of words, words become water and wine, pulling us into worlds we cannot know any other way. The burning is still there, still moves us, but no longer do we dwindle within them.
This is my altar, built of the fire, dedicated to the flame. Every moment of every day is seeking the next word, the next sacrifice, the next offering to place on the altar. Forever it feeds, forever it takes and returns a thousand-fold what I leave.
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