Fire, a breathing, moving concentration of heat. Is it a living thing, or are its dancing flames just another piece of cold rock, of dead coal? Does it eat because it's there, or is it there because it eats, demolishing every piece of wood, every flower, every blade of grass in sight?

The flames before me dance, so playfully, across the darkened pieces of chopped wood. They lick, oh, so gently, as the wind pushes them forward, backward, pulling them up and pushing them back down, smotheringly. They move, as if they know where to go, as if, together, they celebrate their existence and the transformation of their fuel. However, the fire has no brain, nothing telling it to eat, to dance, to play, as far as I can see, at least. There's no genetic information for it to pass along to its children, no way for it to fall in love.

And on the subject of love; what about the passion of Fire? Isn't that what makes love strive? What keeps a love alive? Maybe love and fire are the same object, like a pine tree versus an aspen, or a dog versus a wolf. Both, untouchable, but can cause pain and, at the same time, keep the human race alive. Both keep the human race what it is.

But does that mean it's alive, itself? In my opinion, yes. If I were to say differently, I would be questioning the legitimacy of human emotion, and we all know how real, how physical, that is. How each one is different, burning and eating away at us in their own way. Each on its own, personal, Fire.