In ecstasy, there is often a sense of heat — filled with immense love — that permeates the body. This warmth seems to emerge from the seat, flares in the belly, and rises upward, fanning out at the heart. As this fire moves through the body, it also moves through the awareness, consuming all thoughts (or, more accurately, the tremors from which thoughts emerge). This fire burns away even the thought of “I” — only the sense of this living flame remains.
This is such a wonderful fire that mystics often describe it as a flame of love, so enchanting that, like the moth, you want to dart in and be utterly consumed. (via)
Like any good story, this one starts with a fire and ends with a fire. The flames overlapping the illusions of happiness, the false sense of security.
It’s not a story about love, but one of lusts and loss. A story about traditions and expectations. About how we dig these holes that are now our beds. The choices we make that map our paths to who we are. The consequences of allowing others to define who we are. The need to surround ourselves with the familiar and beg that it will never change.The sideshow attractions of the freakish nature of our minds.
This isn’t a story about how things work out in the end. This isn’t a story about how things will fall into place no matter how much we fuck up because we always carry the joker wild in our pockets. This isn’t a story about beauty or the ugly. It isn’t about being straight out or cynical.
This is a story about our inabilities, no matter how much we want something badly, no matter how hard we attempt to keep the walls from falling, the strings from slipping our grips, the ceiling caving in, the world breaking our backs – no matter how much we change, make up our minds, rethink and reevaluate the world, we can never truly escape ourselves.
This is my story. This his story. This is your story. I hope it all works out in the end.
Chapin City Blues 