Fire

Most of us are innocent of any meaningful contribution to our species. We participate by grinding the Great Wheel, but are barely conscious of how it turns. Or why it bothers to try. And yet each and very one of us shoulders the same burden. That we are willing to forge ahead, only to hold the  others back. 

 We were spawned by a dying star, you and I. Filled with stardust, fission, and light. We’re running on a fuel so febrile it literally burns us out. So is it any wonder we want to shine? 

 But we carry the disappointment like an Olympic Torch. Ignited by the past. Kindled by the present. Each and every one of us fanned by ancestral flames that failed to ignite. We’re the kids at the beach party, left to dance around the blaze; hoping that one day we too can throw a stick on the fire. 

 There is no end to it. And perhaps, there’s no point. We sizzle away on a hot griddle banging our collective heads against a temporal full stop. Each of us hoping that one day the universe might notice our presence. But the longer it goes on, the more it hurts. The angrier we get. Until one day we realise, it’s over. We’re burnt out, shrivelled, and done. Our gift to our children? To watch them flash,  sparkle, and burn. Just like us.