I have always loved fire. The Flame Dance is a spectacle that hypnotizes me, and wakes me greedy for its presence. Being by nature, something convivial, I have always paid great attention to it, every time I see him, I recognize in him a knowledge that I cannot explain to myself, and watching him seems to me to be the devotion of a cult feeding on what it can be. The fire is a support for all the praise, like all the guilt. We can distinguish it in several ways but if there is one that I prefer, it is the one nourished with the great essences, the most noble and rare, the one which makes of him, a new spectacle. Its flames rise so high, that the twigs produced by the creaking of the logs opening to its heat, bring the gaze to the sky, to the escape of a whole universe appearing to us very cold, to the reminder of being only a tiny small point navigating in the void, to survive as a silent exception, by the cycle of what keeps us alive. The song of embers tames the atmosphere like that of mermaids, it incites us to temptation, when the glow that emanates from the reflection of all its jewels, disturb the definition that we could have, to the point of becoming stingy with wanting to catch its beauty. If life is a walk between two doors of reception, is not the fire the reason for the path? Some are afraid of it. It must be said that fire is a dualist, as powerful as it is weak, it is a greedy melting pot, and can only be tamed by temperance to endure its lyricism in what it lacks, time. I'm not one of those people who likes to let a fire die, especially when lightning dictates the reason. Because it is easy to light a fire, to handle it with technique and delicacy to guide it to a comfortable blaze, visible and crackling, it is most often those same who want its presence who do not know how to provide it with the right care. , to the point of only feeling from him the smoke of a soaked wood, to get out of breath and alarm the eyes not to respect what he lacks, time and respect. The fire traumatizes the animals of the forest, it is a specter having the color of the memories of its survivors. Generator of vigilance, he excels in the art of being a chameleon, those who recognize him then take every precaution. It is a sensitive entity, the fire can only be whole, for proof when it touches us we can not help but speak. He is also the inspiration of the bored, loving to tell stories they will never live. Comical, dramatic, fabulous or pitiful, the fire is described by the old people in the unemployed as "on the corner you will not go to the table". And then there are those, who use it to burn, all the reasons in the world to justify being able to water it. The envious would dream, to be enlightened, and the jealous are careful not to share it, convinced of being able, to safeguard a reason, reserving it for oblivion, of an origin which animated his chills. Fire knows how to survive, it is legendary, just like a rare bird it is reborn from its ashes and dust. Of him it is certain no doubts arise, he is only truth, it is the subject which he animates which is often the key. Misunderstood perhaps, pretentious never, it is to be covered with labels the essence of its dangers, and yet, if the translators listened to the reasons to be wary of it, the mistrustful would know how to see another light than its science, to know how to distinguish, the remark from the obvious, only the note of recklessness because too easy to complete, to validate, a relevance, to be enthroned on the pillar of a copy of confidence notice, announcing the alert like a long-distance beacon, it deflects the will to imminently get closer to its luck. Chimney stew, gossip of disgusting people, it nourishes a reflection that they have lost like childhood. Embodying evil, bundling up seducer, he warmly imprisons the reminder to his conscience ... because if all he forgets it is the comfort that allows it, what we illuminate about him is only the shadow of a past, the song of an irresponsible person distinguishing himself from maturity, proving his bravery in defining the past time.It was yesterday, the hearth of a blaze, today it is a mastered flame, a necessary landmark in the nothingness of the heights, smoking with the memory of the perfume of its smell, persistent, like the hope of a promise to the wishes of solitude, to the enigma of an equivalence, of the difficulties of a life based on the choice to understand it, her, this little flame that can set ablaze, a truth that refuses to be wrong in the truth. Who am I, to pretend to succeed where all the others have failed, to be useful only to those who can boast of being dissatisfied, to the point of gathering around me and criticizing me, to understand me what if I am not allowed to explain, what sincerity is to others, the shadow of an apostle's light that they do not know how to look? the ghost of a memory, waiting near the fireplace, in the silence of the words that would wake him up, the passionate one.