I watch the fire, burning the wick of the birthday cupcake candle before me. It’s been burning since this afternoon, and I’ve been sitting here before it since then. We’ve been suffering through Dante’s Paradise together—which, if you ask me, is must more like a personal Inferno. Dante’s preposterous praises of the Greek poets are enough to make me want to run for a lighter, not to mention his lovesick descriptions of Beatrice.
I watch the flame, flickering, dancing, fast, darting. It’s never still, always wavering, flitting from one side of the wick to another, up, down, all around. It cannot be still. It’s like the very incarnation of A.D.D. . . . which is saying something, because I would have guessed it was one of my foster brothers that was that.
But watching it, I wonder. If you slowed it down, I bet that the flame would be even more beautiful. Imagine it dancing gracefully, sweeping and bowing with its firey arms extended, smooth and poised. Like an inspiring dance—not that crap they call dancing nowadays, but surreal, flowing movements that are so incredibly peaceful and pure.
I would love to see a flame dance.