Looking Back At Me


The tender glow that comes from the fire relaxes me.

I sit, every night, alone. It gets very cold at night, but I have my fire.

My fire.

Is that proverbial? The fire that keeps me going, or the kindling set ablaze reflecting my eyes? Obscure visions prowl my mind as I speculate...what is my fire? What keeps me going?

Love. Should I think that? Is it really love? Affection is just something I desire, not genuinely what I have. Cradled in arms that never knew what they were holding.

Ego, skill. I'm proud of what I achieve, but who do I brag to? To a society that mocks my problems just to fuel the facade that cloaks the shame of their own...Friends who do nothing more than the same. I need to settle a score, leave my mark. Let people know I am not a toy for entertainment.

Perhaps, perhaps, it is my sheer determination that I must overcome my problems. But why do I never break them? I just wander past them, always running, always hiding.

The fire is heat, anger, fear, all reflected into my eyes. I am cursed. Cursed with need, need to come back and be accepted, and when I don't find it I relentlessly come back. After doing nothing, I hope for a change?

I look into my mirror, but who is looking back at me?