There is just sheer curiosity, and in curiosity is an evil grin that you will want to use to burn down a house for the fire is just so beautiful in the midnight blue sky.
Smoke rises in the air covering some of the stars and their constellations, big dipper is behind you anyway.
And nothing is more significant, or should be as significant, if it wasn't for the compassionate pity Victor had for the inhabitants of the house. He paused as he held his torch, staring at the unwilling house whose inhabitants are unaware of his intention. He is fighting a battle for which the winners seem to be the inhabitants of the houses he stares at everyday on his way home from work.
Victory to the home owner, to Victor is a sour failure to see the orange blaze lighting up the sky.
He walks to the next curve, and then the next, keeping his eyes on the pavement, not staring to his left or right, holding his lighter, slowing down his breath.
The heat of fire, its flames engrossed in a lust to destroy memories, to destroy what is tangible.
But.
Does it really destroy anything? Science did say that you cannot destroy energy, but just change it from one state to the next. All that is tangible becomes something else, in another form it gets consumed by what requires it. Nothing is destroyed, the world just changes.
And in the void of what used to be a house will be another house, and another house after time. Memories are significant to those who wishes to make them significant.
Victor sat down on the curb, crying slow tears, silently crying as he was a three year old child without a toy. He needs to smell the sweet addictive smell of substandard adhesive a child smells from his toys. He needs to see fire.
And the world has to change, it has to change big, and in the entire confusion on what is fire is not fire, it is not destruction, but transformation, an opportunity to grow something new, something different, to let go of the old ways and be open to something new.
Because if we hold on to our past for fear of the future, we go nowhere. Leave your camp, and no one else wants to leave, burn their tents and make them walk with you. They will hate you, but they will walk, and they will move on.
And there it was, an empty house. He smiled like a child on his birthday, holding up his torch he approached the house and burnt a small corner, watching with wide eyes as fire takes its form and transforms the house from dark dying brown to passionate orange, to the darkest rage of blue and radiating yellow. It has taken command, far beyond the freedom Victor bestowed, as it engulfed the night sky with a bright glow over the midnight blue. It was a wonderful painting by Van Gogh, or some other painter who used dark blue and yellow, fumes covering the stars and rage, pure rage of fire awakens what was a sleepy town to get out of their houses and stare at the fire in utmost panic.
The fire, which will soon engulf their houses too, is too beautiful and hypnotic to ignore. Beauty can be found in tragedy too.
