I love firelight, everything about it. Right now, as I write, soft, flickering orange bathes my page. Shadows play across the hue, the shape of my hand moving, the sharper outline of my pen, touching the page. From my right side, I see the wavering flame, its leaping, dancing fingers fluttering above the logs. I feel its heat on my temple, the warm light that suffuses my cheek. Facing it, even with my eyes closed I see the dark shadows of it flickering on the back side of my eyelids. It’s sound is a low breeze blowing, the simmering smoothness of gas jets.
The flames are outlined in pale orange, melted creamcicles dripping up. At the hear to f the flame is a bluish tinge, but it is unsubstantial, a transparent gas that lifts the tongues upward, above the rough edges of the log.
The warmth calms me, lulls me into a drowsy zone that I want to slip completely into. The room darkens around me until only the light of the fire illuminates my page, too pale to read. My hand moves by instinct, my pen forming letters and words that I cannot see–my eyes only pick up an irregular black line, but my mind hears the words as they slip onto paper, language that continues even longer than light.