Phoenix In The Meantime Rising
I feel like my flame has gone out. My passion. My desire for anything. Small as it was, my flame kept my soul from becoming cold, damp, and dark.
It was in essence, my drive. The ferocity and adamant, downright, bold faced refusal to accept defeat. It was a kind of power that seemed out of place in someone like me. But at the same time it was all that really was truly, authentically me. Everything else was just extra weight. Baggage. Stuff I was fighting a path through to bring fresh oxygen to the flame and let it consume all.
Now there's only embers. Smouldering coals at best.
I want rage to burn through me. I'll take that agony and turn it into something that will burn anything alive that didn't make a run for it soon enough. Anything to stop feeling broken down, weak, emaciated, defeated, beaten into submission and groveling at the feet of my master.
I don't care much that it's not the "right" way of going about igniting my flame and bringing my drive back from the brink of death. I'll get my hands dirty, 'cause that's what it takes; I'll feel right at home. Whoever says reviving any nearly-dead thing isn't a dirty job is a liar with experience, or someone who has never experienced it first hand.
Anything worth having has it's risks. At this point though, every damn thing I do is a risk. So "risk" is a moot point.
