Burning red flames crackling. The wood-smoldering flakes popping off flittering into the sky, dancing in the wind, landing and burning everything they touch. They leave small holes every time gravity forces them back towards the harsh rocky floor.
Emerald eyes, shining. With each sweep or turn, the eyes see one more thing to add to their collection, one more thing to reflect. The eyes age with each rotation of the sun, but they show no wear. As the sun goes down, the eyes replace it, shining ever so brightly, reflecting all the shiny things it collected while the sun was up.
The flames only wish to be free, dancing away from the wood and the ground. They look up at the stars, daring to wish to be a part of them.
The eyes wish to be the sun, and taking its place at night is only growing its dream. The stars are nothing in comparison; the eyes laugh at the flames, believing only they know what is best: the sun.
The flames cannot handle looking at the eyes, let alone in them. The sun shines far too bright, the flames say. We prefer the moon and the stars; it is when we may dance free and shine dully. The flames believe they know best as well, and the stars are the only way to be unconfined by the wood.
The eyes tsk-tsk at the flames; the night is nothing, everyone sleeps, and no one can enjoy your presence; no one can stare up at you and sing your praises, and no one will miss you when you hide behind clouds for a few days too long.
The flames ignore the eyes and shoot as far up toward the stars as they can, singing in crackles and pops—we don’t need to be adored, we only need to be free; we do not want to be watched, and we don’t want to be missed; we are okay with being forgotten and shining for us alone.
The eyes do not understand the flames and never will.
The flames understand the eyes and hope they change.
The flames used to be the eyes, watching and wanting more and more and more. The flames used to dance for other’s approval; they used to sing for anyone but themselves, and they found only misery.
The flames grew from the eyes, though, and saw the error in their way of thinking, and instead of dreaming of the sun, they opened their dreams to the moon and stars. They never looked back. Not until they met the eyes. They now are forced to look back and see their old self in them.
“You can become flames too,” they said to the eyes.
The eyes refuse to listen, turning their ever-sweeping gaze away from the flames, scorning them for wanting freedom, not knowing what they wish to be free of.
The stars sigh as they watch the eyes and flames, knowing that some flames become stars and others stay trapped as flames forever. Some eyes grow into flames, but most stay as they are. And the stars who rarely dream or wish cast a wish to the other stars, and they close their eyes so they might dream again, hoping that both eyes and flames will come to join them as stars and relinquish the rocky ground once and for all.
And the star’s dreams, wishes, and hopes are sometimes met.
