There is a feeling when it flickers, catches, begins to burn and carries on of it’s own accord. A primal click of conquest, of being as safe as one can feel beneath the vast expanse of a sky that contains pinpricks in the form of gas giants and nebulous entities.
It is the thing that calls us home from the furthest distance, a promethean upgrade, that most modernizing revelation which elevated us to thinking the greatest thing since sliced bread is toast.
How far we’ve come and how close we stay to what we were when faced with the calming crackle of a camper’s constant.

It perpetuates, hungry and happy to grow, or to stay quiet and smolder, to bask in it’s own glow without needing any acknowledgement.

This is the starting point of magic, that perfect storm of breath, fuel, spark which can kindle a candle or become a chaotic conflagration.
It is where we begin, forged and tempered by time, the finest steel with the keenest edge with just as much a connection to creativity and art, as to destruction.